


Feel The Night

by Fitzrove



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ballroom Dancing, Blood Drinking, Case Fic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Tanz der Vampire, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oxford, Period Typical Attitudes, Romance, oh and most importantly, there's a vampire ball but i couldn't find a tag for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/pseuds/Fitzrove
Summary: Peter Jakes, one of the finest (and only) detectives in the newly-established Oxford City Police, is drawn into a world of secrets, shadows and venomous teeth when a witness to a murder in rather unusual circumstances comes to him asking for help. It doesn't help that said witness is unbearably attractive, and a vampire, and has a bit of a knack for detective work himself.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse, background George Fancy/Shirley Trewlove
Comments: 26
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

_Oxford, October 1885_

Peter had never needed to question one of their kind before.

As he made his way through the gaslit street, the night clear and young with a sheer layer of mist lingering in the air, he did his best to keep on his usual mask of composure. It wasn’t easy, even though he considered himself sufficiently hardened from his several years of experience at the Oxford CID. The oldest coppers, those who’d been there from the watch-and-ward days, were quick to judge an upstart like him, and that was their mistake. Ever since Peter had first joined the force (half for the free lodgings upstairs at Kemp Hall, half for the excitement) he’d had a good record of keeping up with troublemakers and being practical about interrogations.

When the CID had been established in Oxford two years ago, he’d jumped at the chance. For all his sharpness, however, he hadn’t anticipated the supernatural aspects of the job. Yet here he was, heading to interrogate someone that couldn’t be photographed for evidence because of the silver used in film, but had left his card at the station to offer up information about what he’d seen.

Peter finally stopped when he recognised the building by description. Its limestone facade wasn’t much unlike the city’s student lodgings, fancy buildings bordering the inner courts of colleges that seemed much too good for the stuck-up brats studying there, but that’s where the similarities stopped. This wasn’t an expensive place to live, judging by the wear and tear, and it was cramped. He passed a family of six on the stairs, arguing about something, clearly on their way back to their one-room flat.

What sort of self-respecting vampire lived in such unremarkable conditions? Not that Peter was particularly well-read in their habits, but he’d picked up bits and pieces from conversations at the pub. Things about noble blood, haunted churchyards, and if not outright castles, stately homes in the moors at the very least. Not some random building where normal people resided.

The door was unassuming, just like the rest of the building. Peter took a deep breath, looked around to make sure he wasn’t being followed, and knocked.

“Who is it?” a soft voice asked from inside. Peter blinked, and had to lean on the door for a bit, more startled than he would’ve been if the voice had been harsh and rough. He’d been expecting something alike to how shifty types you met in back alleys talked, those you actually might’ve guessed were vampires. This was a man with an almost posh accent, his voice gentle and refined.

“Sergeant Jakes, Oxford City Police”, Peter said, keeping his voice down. He was definitely heard, though, because the door opened silently, making him stumble ungraciously.

“Come in”, the man said, and as Peter looked up, he locked eyes with someone who had the most vibrant steel-blue eyes he’d ever seen.

Peter cleared his throat, but stepped in without hesitation. He had no idea what compelled him to do it so carelessly, and the idea struck him as very stupid the moment the man shut the door behind him. He was trapped in a one-room flat with a man with supernaturally heightened senses, and he hadn’t even brought a weapon. Hell, he didn’t even know if one would’ve been of any use - wasn’t silver pretty much the only thing that worked to overpower these creatures?

The flickering of a candle lit up the man’s face, and Peter looked at him in awe, struggling to know what to make of him. Ginger curls framed his alabaster face, and his features seemed almost delicate, the plush curve of his lips almost at odds with the sharp cut of his cheekbones. He was strikingly handsome, perhaps not altogether conventionally, but it didn’t matter when it made Peter’s breath hitch.

Peter would’ve been fooled, if not for the dangerous glint as they locked eyes again, and he followed the man’s gaze to the bare skin of his throat.

“Uh…” Peter started, lost on the etiquette of the situation, and was surprised yet again as the man tore his eyes away at lightning-speed and took a step back.

“I mean no harm”, the man said, lifting up his hands to show they were empty. “My name is Morse. You’re here to speak about what happened at the Memorial Garden, right? Where the church of Saint Peter in the West used to be?”

“You sure are going straight into business, mate”, Peter said, raising an eyebrow. “Where’s the hospitality?”

He had meant for it to be a teasing remark, perhaps a bit snappy as well, but certainly not something that would make Morse’s face flush in embarrassment. As much as a vampire’s face could flush, anyway.

“I’m sorry, sergeant Jakes. I don’t… get too many visitors”, Morse said, suddenly awkward. Peter resisted the urge to laugh - how about that, a socially uncomfortable vampire when they were supposed to be either mindless beasts or the pinnacle of smoothness to lure their victim in. Certainly not _this_. And living in some completely ordinary block of flats down the street like any book-keeper’s apprentice or disgraced son of a country lord. It made him smile.

“Did you eat the former tenant, or what?” Peter blurted out before he could help himself. Morse closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against his forehead with white knuckles. Not that it said much, since Peter had to guess Morse’s circulation couldn’t be the best in any circumstance.

“No, I - what?” Morse asked, not looking at him. “Could we start over?”

Peter took pity on the awkward vampire, offering his hand.

“Sergeant Jakes, Oxford City Police”, he introduced himself. Morse peeked at him carefully first, before conceding and removing his hand from his face to shake Peter’s. It was so cold that it made Peter shudder, and it was Morse’s turn to smirk at him.

“I used to have a Christian name, but I fear those times are over for me”, Morse said. “So you can call me Morse.”

Now that they’d made somewhat of a better first impression on one another, Peter was pretty satisfied with how things were going. And he hadn’t been mauled yet, which was also very good. However, he must’ve looked a little lost, standing around by Morse’s door, as the vampire tilted his head.

“I might not have any tea to offer you, but do sit down”, Morse said, gesturing towards a worn but clean armchair. Next to it stood a desk made of dark wood, several unstable-looking piles of books new and old lining and covering it on all sides. The fixture, along with a bookshelf, seemed to occupy most of Morse’s living space. Peter looked around for a bit before he could spot what clearly used to be a kitchen corner, but had now been repurposed as another book depository. The only place clear of books was the armchair, and a mattress in the corner of the room.

Peter made his way to the armchair, trying not to knock over anything amidst the clutter, and Morse sat down on the high-back chair at his desk, turning it to face Peter.

“You mentioned a church?” Peter asked, digging up a notepad and pen from his pocket. Morse nodded, leaning back in his chair.

“Right, or rather, a former church. Around ten years ago, they moved St-Peter-le-Bailey up the road, and there’s now a memorial garden where the churchyard used to be. Do you know the place?”

“I didn’t live here ten years ago, but sure”, Peter said. “Pass it almost every day.”

“How much did they tell you about what happened last Tuesday before sending you here?” Morse asked, crossing his arms. Peter looked at him, face and head pretty blank.

“Not much. The Inspector seemed unwilling to talk about it”, Peter said. “To be honest, I thought it odd. He’s not usually like that.”  
  


Morse sighed, which tripped Peter up for a moment - if he was dead, he wasn’t breathing, right, so it was probably out of habit alone, how _strange_ \- and rubbed his temple.

“I was there. I reported it, as a matter of fact”, Morse said. “What you said confirms my fears. They didn’t want to hear any of it, and they probably only took my testimony out of fear for what I’d do if I didn’t. You know, because of what I am.”

Peter nodded. He could see the constable on reception duty being a little intimidated by this man, no matter how curiously ordinary he seemed for a vampire. There were no two-inch teeth sticking out as Morse spoke, but Peter didn’t doubt he could get them out at a moment’s notice. And the sheen of his skin wasn’t altogether natural, as wasn’t the strikingly deep colour of his eyes. Maybe it was just Peter’s mind working overtime, but he knew this man hunted to kill. It was in his very nature.

“Well, what happened?” Peter asked, after realising they’d been staring at each other for a full minute at the very least. Morse straightened in his chair.

“To put it simply, murder”, Morse said. “A young man was attacked and bled to death. But that’s nothing new. The attacker, he… rose. From underneath the ground, from his grave. I saw him.”

A chill ran through Peter’s spine, through his very bones, making him drop the notepad with a thud and scramble to find it again. Before he could even bend down to look at the floor, Morse’s arm was outstretched, the notepad in his hand. There was no way he could’ve picked it up so fast, but he just had.

“Are you sure?” Peter asked, crossing over the messed-up word and blowing on the ink to make it dry faster. “Sounds outlandish to me.”

He regretted his words almost instantly - what if the best way to survive an interview with the vampire was to suck up to him, and he’d just screwed that up? - but Morse seemed to take it as a challenge. Hell, if Peter didn’t know better, he would’ve said Morse’s eyes lit up at having the burden of proof tossed at him.

“I do believe what I saw, even though it’s not commonplace by any means”, Morse said. “I’ve tried to research the phenomenon, as you might see. The Bodleian librarians probably hate me by now. But so far I’ve come up short on what could be causing it, even though I think I know without a doubt what it was.”

“... do share”, Peter said, gripping his pen to avoid dropping that, too, and embarrassing himself further. He straightened his back, trying to gain some semblance of control in a situation where things seemed beyond what he knew. Either that, or Morse was telling tales.

“It was a vampire”, Morse said. “I tried to save the boy, and when the vampire fled, I saw his teeth. None of the occult researchers know of any other creatures to match the description. But he was, or seemed, older than anyone I’ve ever met personally. I could tell by his clothing. I think he climbed up from his grave.”

Peter stared at Morse, pursing his lips to avoid looking like an idiot with his mouth hanging open again. He did succeed in that, but that didn’t mean he didn’t look like an idiot with his mouth closed.

“But why was he buried?” Peter asked. “I mean, you’re not six feet under or anything.”

“Brilliant observation”, Morse said, practically rolling his eyes. “That’s actually something I knew how to answer even before all this research.”

He paused for a while, either deep in thought or for dramatic effect, and Peter thought it too rude to interrupt.

“Some people fall behind”, Morse said. “The years. After they’ve experienced unlife for a century or few, they get bored. Or too anxious to go on with all their loved ones gone, or uncomfortable with the way things have changed. So they choose to rest in peace, despite being unable to die. It’s like a hibernation of sorts. They don’t need to breathe, so many think it best to be buried in a churchyard.”

“Would be a nasty surprise to do it elsewhere”, Peter mused out loud. “Like in your grandma’s closet or something.”

“Right”, Morse said, still stern, but Peter could swear he saw the corners of his lips quirking with the force of a smile held back. Peter inexplicably found himself longing to see Morse smile, to know how he looked when he did.

“But this man came up?” Peter asked. Morse nodded.

“I don’t know why. It’s not unprecedented, but still very rare”, Morse said. “And what I saw confirms that it’s a problem. After being away from society for so long, they can’t control themselves. They need to feed.”

“And so they attack the unlucky bugger that happened to be nearby when they decided to quit their beauty sleep”, Peter said. Morse was less impressed by the quip than he’d hoped, so Peter resolved to think of a better one when he next got the chance.

“Yeah. And what’s more worrying, there’s rumours going around of this having been going on for a while already”, Morse continued. “If this is some kind of exodus, there’s going to be a lot of vampires in Oxfordshire soon. More vampires means -”

“More need for blood”, Peter finished the sentence.

He knew what Morse meant. The police station did receive reports of attacks every few months or so, but the number was probably greater than that - the ones they got word of were either close calls where the would-be victim had been able to escape before getting their neck pierced by someone’s teeth, or a botched job where the body hadn’t been taken care of properly. Most vampires probably did their best to hide their deeds, since it wasn’t unheard of for them to be driven out of towns or even killed if they were discovered and declared guilty.

“How many vampires are there in the city right now?” Peter asked. “More importantly, how often do you people feed?”

“If you count me, I know of half a dozen permanent residents here”, Morse said. “Add to that those who I don’t know of, it makes maybe fifteen in total. And there’s the ones who pass through to top that off. We have to feed every week, although if need be, you can stretch it out to two.”

There was no unblunt way to put what Peter needed to say next.

“And, uh… do I need to arrest you for murder?” Peter asked. Morse chuckled.

“No. City dwellers like me usually try to make friends at the butchershop”, Morse said. “It’s not too healthy, but it gets you by.”

Morse really was a pretty unremarkable vampire, if you went by the traditional mileposts. But then again, being so different from what Peter had expected was a pretty remarkable feat on its own, and even though the accent made him sound like a bit of a posh git at times, he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders, witness of occult nightmares or not. A bit too bookish to imagine as one of the lads down at the pub, but likeable enough.

“And how many have been turned here since Adam and Eve?” Peter asked. “How many might… rise, if we don’t do anything about it?”

“That’s one thing I’ve been trying to estimate”, Morse said. “There’s some records, mentions of these special burials in parish registers. But with the history stretching back such a long period, it’s impossible to know for sure. And we don’t know yet if they will all rise or just some, and why those that rise do so.”

That was true, even though Peter still wasn’t sure if the rest of Morse’s story was. If this wasn’t all made up, it would probably become the most complicated mess Peter had ever needed to deal with, and that was notwithstanding the time a princess had showed up in Oxford unannounced and turned the whole city upside down in a matter of hours.

“I know it might be hard to believe me, but this is important”, Morse said. “I’m not above begging to have you consider this matter seriously.”

“I want to believe you”, Peter said, surprised by his own candidness. “But -”

“We should meet again tomorrow night”, Morse interrupted. “Look for further clues. I do know where to start, but I could use another pair of eyes and the force of the law behind me on this. Please.”

Peter considered it for a moment, before locking eyes with Morse once more, this time not afraid of the intensity of his eyes. He could see past the vampirism for now, and try to find out what was going on with this man who probably could’ve made a passable detective if he put his head to that instead of whatever he usually spent his time on.

“Deal”, Peter said, and offered his hand once more, bracing for the cold in advance this time. Morse shook it, and as he looked up at Peter, he gave him a small, grateful smile. One that Peter could stand to see more of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this! :D
> 
> This fic was born as a spur-of-the-moment thing before I have to carry on with uni: I started writing it on Jan 9 and finished on the night of Jan 17. Very speedy, and as a result, I'm practically publishing my first draft. Feedback is appreciated - I know storytelling in a longer form without devolving into gooey romance stuff isn't my strong suit, and I think I might actually edit this if someone has a good suggestion. I am, however, very satisfied with the course of the story, a lot of the aesthetics I picked and a number of really great scenes. Hope this self-indulgent nugget of Goth brings joy to someone other than me as well!
> 
> Btw, huge thanks to http://www.oxfordhistory.org.uk/burials/burial_grounds/index.html for being the #1 resource for this fic. I can't believe how many times I looked at that for accuracy's sake XD Setting your fic in the 1880s AND wanting to be accurate about stuff isn't for the faint of heart lol


	2. Chapter 2

The next night, Peter walked to Morse’s flat again, this time a lot less apprehensive about meeting a vampire. He’d given a short report on his investigations to the station earlier that day, but hadn’t gone into too much detail - he still wasn’t entirely convinced himself, and they didn’t need to waste time on convincing any more people of extraordinary supernatural happenings until they had more information. It would’ve felt good to have backup, but the force was small, and admittedly, there were far more pressing crimes to investigate. The Inspector was being lenient with him on this one, mostly because he owed Peter a lot of favours, and didn’t want the reasons behind those favours to come out. Just because Peter was in service of the police, didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to get his hands dirty from time to time. It wasn’t the important stuff - the justice part they handled as well as they could - but had the Met found out about certain oversights in expense reports and such, the Inspector would’ve been sacked at the very least.

Morse was waiting for him at the front door, leaning against the wall and half-blending into the shadows. Peter saw that he’d put on a long coat and was practically burrowing in it, the collar turned up high. It was the same sort of shabby as Morse’s apartment, and ten years or so out of fashion, but well-maintained. Peter snorted at the thought of taking Morse shopping for something more stylish. He could just about imagine the vampire sulking around a tailor shop, trying to find some nook to hide in as Peter and the tailor chased him around and tried to get him to try on something that brought out his eyes.

“Good evening”, Peter said. Morse stood up straight, shoving his hands into his pockets. No gloves, even though English autumn nights weren’t particularly renowned for their warmth. It took Peter a minute to realise that Morse probably couldn’t feel the cold.

“Sergeant Jakes”, Morse acknowledged him. Despite the change of outfit, he seemed the same - curly, fiery hair unkempt, but in a glamorous way, like a lovelorn poet or scandalous writer might’ve looked, and his skin pale as ever, even when Peter was out of breath and his cheeks were pink from the cold. Peter pursed his lips.

“I’d much rather you call me Peter”, Peter said. “Feels like I’m in the army, or something.”

For a moment, he thought Morse would be offended. Hell, Peter didn’t even know how old the man was - what if his standards of propriety were stuck somewhere in the 1600s, and his admittedly bold request seemed even more crass to Morse? However, Morse just shrugged.

“Fine. But you’re not going to get a first name out of me despite this”, Morse said, and started walking. Peter let him show the way.

“Why?” Peter asked, throwing caution to the wind. Morse hadn’t lunged at his throat yesterday when they were by themselves in a small room, so he probably wouldn’t do so out in the open either.

Morse leaned in close as they walked, conspiratorial, and Peter stared at him with wide eyes. His sharp teeth were getting a little too close to Peter’s throat for comfort, but instead of biting, Morse simply whispered: “It’s none of your business.”

“Alright, be like that”, Peter said, pushing Morse away. Morse didn’t budge much, but stepped back out of courtesy, which was incredibly frustrating. Peter sighed.

“Look, I don’t ask to be rude. I’ve just never met a vampire before”, Peter said. Morse raised an eyebrow.

“You might’ve without knowing”, Morse said. “There’s quite many of us altogether, but we try to stay spaced out. London’s obviously getting crowded, but since there’s also a lot of humans, it doesn’t really show.”

“I think I’d know if I had met one before”, Peter said. “You’re… well, you look  _ different _ . I can tell.”

Morse looked at him up and down, hands still in his pockets. Peter felt a blush rise to his cheeks, and even though he didn’t want to acknowledge why, he felt uncomfortably  _ seen  _ when Morse’s bright eyes mapped out the lines of his shoulders, the way he held himself, his impeccably styled hair and well-shined shoes. He didn’t know what Morse thought of him, and inexplicably, he  _ cared _ .

“I don’t know if that was a compliment, but thank you”, Morse finally said. Peter simply evaded his eyes, looking at everything but Morse as they kept walking, Peter praying that he wouldn’t bump into Morse if they suddenly needed to stop or turn a corner.

“We’re here”, Morse said. Peter looked up and realised they were standing in front of a little house that almost looked like a cottage. That is, if it hadn’t been standing along Henley Road, a pretty busy road starting just where the city ended, and had instead propped itself up on a sunny field somewhere. A bright street lamp across the street lit up the doorway, and Morse carefully maneuvered himself around the light without looking in its direction. To avoid hurting his night-predator eyes, probably.

“Are we visiting someone?” Peter asked. Morse nodded.

“A friend of mine from way back. Actually, we -”

“Well, are you two going to stand there all night, or are you coming in?” a voice interrupted.

Peter turned his head to see a bespectacled man squinting at them from the doorway, seemingly trying to find cover behind the door to avoid getting a faceful of streetlight. He had a round face and a bow-tie, and despite looking rather youthful, had a few streaks of grey in his hair.

“I keep writing to the City Council about that accursed lamp, but they’re not doing anything”, the man said. “Come on in, you’re not going to want to deal with me in the throes of cephalalgy.”

“Headache”, Morse muttered out of the corner of his mouth, before slipping past the man and into the house. Peter wasn’t sure if it was a whine of pain or an explanation for the fancy word, but followed suit, only a little apprehensive about entering the home of someone he’d just met, and who could probably drain him in half a minute.

The house was dusky from the inside, the windows carefully covered with dark curtains. The only light came from an oil lamp mounted on the wall of the entrance hall, covered as well to make it less bright.

“Hello, Morse”, the round-faced man said, pushing the door shut and letting out a sigh of relief. “Who’s your living friend?”

“He’s a policeman”, Morse said, taking off his coat and casually hanging it on a hook by the door without needing to look. “Sergeant Peter Jakes.”

“Wotcher”, Peter said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, not sure whether he should follow Morse’s example and get rid of his overcoat. Luckily, the man made the decision for him, stepping forward to shake his hand. Peter hesitated for a second, but was surprised to notice the man wasn’t as startlingly cold to the touch as Morse was. Of course, he was quite quick to notice that it was because the bastard was wearing gloves.

“Max DeBryn”, the man said. “Pleasure to meet you. What brings you here, other than Morse?”

Peter didn’t know where to start. He really would’ve appreciated it if Morse had taken the lead here, since this was obviously a pretty close friend, but Morse was simply standing there and staring at the admittedly gorgeous painting of a farmyard on the hallway, lost in thought.

“Well, Mr. DeBryn, I…”

“Doctor, actually, if you don’t mind”, DeBryn said. Peter got told this all the time - you could hardly avoid it in a city full of stuck-up academics - but DeBryn said it without pomp, in a way that made the title sound natural. Like it was his first name or something. “Granted, the qualification is a few centuries old, but I’ve been in practice ever since, so I think it does count.”

At least DeBryn was polite enough to confirm he was a vampire without being asked. That saved Peter another awkward moment.

“Morse”, Peter said, and when he’d got his attention, looked pointedly at DeBryn. Morse seemed not to get what he was so insistent on, looking at him as if he’d asked a stupid question. DeBryn saved him once again, clapping his hands together.

“Morse, my dear, would you kindly show Sergeant Jakes to the sitting room? I’ll be with you shortly with something to drink. What about you, Jakes, tea? Brandy?”

Peter considered whether he needed his complete wits more than his nerves, and settled on the latter.

“Brandy, please”, he said. “No offense, but I think I need a drink.”

DeBryn smiled at him before disappearing into the kitchen. Morse led him along the hallway to a cosy sitting room, flopping down on an armchair without second thought. Peter chose to sit on the sofa, figuring that by doing so he probably wouldn’t infringe upon his host’s favourite spot.

“Did you just want company to have a drink with your pal, or -” Peter asked. Morse rolled his eyes and promptly let them flutter shut, leaning back in the chair, relaxed.

“Max is kind like that”, Morse said. “I’ve learned better than to say no. But we’re not here for the free drinks. He’s lived here even longer than I have, and knows the city like his own pockets.”

Peter thought about that for a minute. For the first time, he had the sense to actually consider just  _ how long  _ ‘a long time’ meant for a vampire.

“Not to be rude, but… how old are you?” Peter asked. Morse didn’t open his eyes, but a smile lit up his face. Peter almost expected another dismissal, to be told (unnecessarily seductively) to mind his own business, but Morse didn’t do that.

“You’re lucky I’m not a woman”, Morse said. “I was born in 1659, a little after the Civil War.”

For a two-hundred-year-old, Morse sure looked young. He didn’t act particularly young, but then again, it would be hard to find someone who would be doing that intentionally. Even if Morse was a human still, Peter would’ve guessed him to be a middle-aged man in a somewhat younger body.

“Here?” Peter asked. Morse shook his head.

“Nearer Cambridge, somewhat ironically”, Morse said. “Southern Lincolnshire. And you’re from somewhere near London.”

“How can you tell?” Peter asked. “Wait. Accent, right?”

He was used to the jabs he’d get about it, even though nobody was really capable of putting anything malicious behind them. Policing in London had been worse, since he did speak a little too close to Cockney for comfort, and the upper-class folks they dealt with were suspicious of him as a result. Transferring to Oxford to strengthen the newly-formed CID had been the right choice for him, even though the new city did bring along a new set of annoying rich people. This time, they also thought themselves terribly smart, which was somehow worse.

“Your accent’s fine. But it isn’t exactly big news that they hauled almost all of the police here from the Met when they set up the CID”, Morse said. “Nobody in their right mind would grow up in Oxford and decide to become a policeman here.”

Peter laughed at that, unsure of what to make of the statement. Luckily, he didn’t need to respond, because DeBryn arrived with a tray in hand, one glass and two opaque cups on it.

Peter didn’t have much time to wonder which drink was his, because DeBryn set the glass in front of him at nearly superhuman speed.

“Trust me, Sergeant, you’d rather not accidentally have one of these”, DeBryn said, as he circled around the tea table and gave Morse his drink, before grabbing his own and sitting down on the comfortable-looking leather chair opposite Peter.

The reality of the situation dawned on Peter when Morse took a long drag of his cup, eyes still closed, and brought it away from his mouth only to reveal his lips were stained crimson. He licked them clean as Peter watched, equal parts disturbed and fascinated, and realised that the reason the cups weren’t see-through was probably out of courtesy for him.

“I know Morse forgets to feed himself properly”, DeBryn explained, when Peter looked at him again. “And if we’re to talk about this worrying phenomenon he’s been looking into, we need him to concentrate instead of staring into the emptiness of space while we speak.”

“Rude”, Morse muttered. However, there was a clear difference, now that Peter knew to look for it - his skin looked almost  _ flushed _ , healthy and alive, and he was finally blinking his eyes open again after looking somewhat lethargic all night.

As Peter took a swig of his glass, Morse got DeBryn up to speed. Apparently they’d discussed it extensively before, and all Morse had to describe was how he’d got closer to estimating how many of the risen they might end up having to deal with - not much closer, but it was something - and giving a brief account of what it had took to convince Peter. Peter toasted at the mention of his own name.

“Although I still don’t know if I believe you entirely”, Peter said. “Not that I’d fancy coming face-to-face with someone crawling out of their coffin for proof, but you have to admit it sounds outlandish.”

“It is outlandish, but I’m afraid it’s all we can build a case on right now”, DeBryn said. “The question, now that we’re aware of what’s happening, is how we can put a stop to it. Your dedication for history is admirable, Morse, but I don’t think we can find out too much about current events without asking around a bit. Discreetly.”

“I agree”, Morse said. “Do you know who we should go to? I don’t know if we can trust Mrs Randall with this, but…”

“I wouldn’t be getting her involved just yet”, DeBryn said. “And I don’t know if the permanent residents would know much anyway. But Shirley’s on her way to town, might arrive by next morning, even. If you’re willing to wake her up, you might get some answers tomorrow before noon.”

Peter was shifting his eyes from Morse to DeBryn to back to Morse again, not quite keeping up with all the strangers the two were mentioning. All vampires, undoubtedly, and by the sound of it, he would have to meet yet another night-dweller tomorrow.

“But in the end, it does all come down to us”, DeBryn said. “Sergeant Jakes can bring this up with his superiors, but as he said, they might think he’s bound for the madhouse and laugh him out of the door before hearing him out. In fact, we should be prepared for the worst - gentlemen, finish your drinks and come with me, please.”

They followed DeBryn to a room that probably originally was a toilet, but now housed a rather impressive collection of chemistry instruments that Peter would’ve had no idea how to use. DeBryn lifted a hand to indicate they shouldn’t try to squeeze into the room past the table that took up most of the space, so Morse and Peter were left standing in the doorway.

“I’ve been working on this for a while, when my medical duties allow”, DeBryn said, pulling on thick gloves before taking down a container full of a shimmery liquid from a shelf on the wall. “I’m not going to open it right now, but it’s completely safe for you to handle, Sergeant Jakes, if you want to take a closer look.”

DeBryn handed him the container, a little smaller than a bottle of milk, and Peter took care to keep it away from Morse. A peek underneath the lid confirmed his suspicions - liquid silver.

“Given enough time to experiment, I might be able to make this into effective bullets”, DeBryn said. “Not that I’d particularly enjoy it, since what I’m doing technically goes against the Hippocratic oath, but if it spares more mortal lives than it ends immortal ones, I think it’s worth it.”

“If it’s of any help, my service revolver’s the standard Metropolitan lot”, Peter said. “Haven’t used it, even though I do know how. I could hand it over for you to examine, just in case.”

If he was going to start carrying a firearm on his daily (nightly?) duties, he might as well do it for the sake of hunting rogue vampires. However, it was of no use against them as it was, since DeBryn’s insistence on the silver bullets probably meant normal ones wouldn’t work on vampires. Might as well leave it with DeBryn and see if he managed to turn it into something useful.

And so, Peter handed off his service revolver to a man he’d just met. If he was being strung along by a bunch of lunatics who were only pretending to be vampires, he’d just made a serious mistake, but he couldn’t find it in himself to believe that’s how things were. He had a good feeling about Morse and DeBryn.

“Where to next?” Peter asked as the door closed behind them. Morse quickly stepped out of the glaringly bright street lamp’s way - Christ, now that Peter had spent time in a dark house, he could empathise with Morse and DeBryn’s pain - and Peter followed him, trying not to look like an idiot even as he squinted.

“We should take a look at the churchyard”, Morse said. “The victim’s long gone by now, and I don’t know if looking at something so… gruesome up close would help either of us anyway. But if you’re still doubting me, seeing where the vampire came up should clear away any suspicion of foul play. On my part, that is.”

The night had quieted down considerably during the time they’d spent at DeBryn’s house, and rowdy students and late-night pubgoers alike were off to their own (or someone else’s, Peter wasn’t judging) beds. They walked along the Cherwell for a while, its depths swirling like ink in the darkness. Peter was still having a hard time wrapping his head around everything he’d learned, but walking in a night like this, he could just about believe that what DeBryn and Morse had told him was truly real and happening. It made him worry.

Morse was lost in thought again, although it seemed different from how he’d looked before getting some blood into his system. He looked somehow vibrant again, even more so now, moonlight reflecting off his features like he was some Greek statue, his eyes calm and deep like the ocean. Peter found his eyes wandering over Morse, just out of curiosity and wonder. He was such a unique blend of soft and hard, his quiet and subtle demeanor so at odds with the spark Peter saw in his eyes when he spoke defiantly, and the speed and strength that came inherently with his being a vampire. And of course, the needle-sharp teeth that had yet to make an appearance.

“DeBryn’s… nice”, Peter said, when he didn’t know what else to speak to Morse about. “You known him long?”   
“Ever since I came to Oxford”, Morse said. “He actually helped me move houses here a few years back. I was passing myself off as a student for a while, even got a scholarship, and when they found me out, they naturally kicked me out of the dormitories. Pity, but I do understand them. I’ve done a few degrees over the years.”

Peter chuckled at that. Of course Morse would’ve spent his eternal life  _ studying _ , it should’ve been clear to him the moment he stepped into his flat and saw that it was practically covered in books.

“Figures”, he said out loud. “God, I can’t get over how…  _ academic  _ you are. All the stories I’ve heard are full of castles, and vampire hunters, and -”

“People with money?” Morse offered, but Peter shook his head.

“I was going to say sultry vampire ladies”, Peter said. “But I haven’t met one yet.”

Morse looked at him for a long while again, the way that made Peter think that he knew something Peter didn’t, as irrational as it probably was. Peter didn’t consider himself particularly easy to read, and  _ alright _ , maybe he was a little bit attracted to Morse, but he sure wasn’t going to flaunt it at him when they’d known each other for all of two days.

“If you call Shirley  _ sultry  _ when we meet her tomorrow, she’s going to punch you in the face”, Morse eventually said. “I’m not saying this to be hurtful, I’m just saying it to -”

Morse suddenly fell silent, and after half a second, stopped walking. Before Peter could know it, he was being grabbed by his sleeve and pulled into the shadow of the tree by the sidewalk. He looked up but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, other than that they were almost at the Magdalen Bridge. He almost asked Morse to finish his sentence, but was silenced by a sharp tug on his sleeve.

“Look”, Morse hissed, pointing at the empty, open area - The Plain - that lay between them and the bridge.

There was a woman, walking unnaturally stiffly, wearing an age-bleached dress that looked like it could be anything from forty to sixty years old. Her questionable fashion choices weren’t what Morse was worried about, however - it was clear from the blood still coating the front of her gown that she’d just fed, and that the victim wasn’t cold yet. Morse’s grip of his sleeve tightened as he and Peter wordlessly looked in the direction the woman was coming from, all the way across from them. Peter was the first one to spot it, unable to hold back the gasp as he saw the figure of a man slumped against a tree at the edge of the open spece, and Morse clamped his hand over his mouth.

“She can smell you if she gets close”, Morse whispered. “I’m going after her.”

Before Peter could protest, Morse had left his side in a flash, a mess of black and fiery red. The woman noticed him approaching, and bolted for the Magdalen Bridge. Peter had no choice but to follow - he didn’t think he could be of much help if it came down to  _ fighting  _ a well-fed vampire, but he knew there was an officer patrolling on the bridge, and even though that officer would be of as little help as Peter himself, they needed to see if the victim could be saved.

So Peter ran, trying to keep an eye on Morse as he did, but they had already crossed the bridge by the time he’d made it to the midway point. He hoped Morse knew what he was doing, because the alternative was too depressing to think about, and right now he was still full of fighting spirit.

“Jakes, thank goodness!” the constable on patrol, Richards, said. “Did you see that? Something just went past me like a train. Bloody curious night, isn’t it, one would think there’s something -”

“There’s no time”, Peter gasped. “Vampire attack. Again. There’s a body on the Plain. We need help.”

For all his faults, Richards wasn’t a slow thinker.

“Where’s the attacker?” he asked. Peter nodded his head to the direction Morse and the woman had disappeared in.

“You go get help without getting eaten yourself”, Richards said, and Peter nodded numbly, even though he was technically the senior out of the two of them. “I’ll go to the… body. Maybe he wasn’t dead yet. Alert Pike first, he’s staying up for the night.”

Running down High Street had never taken such an impossibly long time before, but Peter made it, and even though the ruckus he made at Kemp Hall wasn’t appreciated, the men awake were dispatched in no time, just one left behind to try and wake the rest. He was told to stay behind before he fainted from the constant wheezing, but he could only bear to rest for a minute before taking off again. He couldn’t run anymore, but he did his best to hurry along, out of worry for Morse.

Peter would’ve probably missed it, had he not been more suspicious of his environment than ever before, but just before he was about to cross the bridge again he heard a soft thump from the wooded area across the stream, on the water meadow. He had just enough time to snap his head up and catch a glimpse of a familiar bleached-out fabric before the figure disappeared under the water. For a moment he feared the worst - that the creature had done away with Morse - but then, he heard a wail of pain coming from the nearby college. It sounded like a wounded animal, pitiful and heart-breaking, and as afraid for what he might find as Peter was, he forced himself to take one step after another and enter the college through the gate, left swinging open.

“Morse?” Peter called out, trying to keep the panic from his voice, not caring whether he woke up one of the rich kids sleeping in the dormitories above. There was another weak cry in response, which made Peter walk faster. When he turned a corner and entered the side of the college bordering the river, his heart stopped for a moment.

Morse was hunched over on the ground, clutching his hands against his chest, shaking with the effort to not scream again. Peter ran over to him and knelt down next to him, carefully grabbing him by the wrists to stop him from hurting himself any further.

“Shit, Morse, what’s -” Peter started, before Morse looked up at him, his face tear-stained, and showed him his hands.

Peter had seen murder victims before, had seen the aftermaths of house fires and beatings and even executions, but he’d never seen a mess alike to what had become of Morse’s hands. It was a devil’s crossbreed of charred and bruised, the skin practically bubbling, angry and red and flaking off. There was no blood, but somehow it made it look worse, and Peter couldn’t help but wince in pain himself at the sight.

He would’ve comforted Morse somehow, asked him how badly he’d been hurt, but all the words dried up in his throat and he could only stare at Morse with wide eyes, trying not to do anything to make it worse. Morse took a shaky breath, then another, before looking at Peter again. When he spoke, his voice was shaking with the effort of staying calm.

“Someone”, Morse cleared his throat, “someone at college thought it was a good idea to lace the fence-top with silver. I climbed after her. And, as you might imagine from how my hands are now, I fell.”

Peter offered his arm to help Morse up, but when he realised Morse wouldn’t be able to grab his hand, he resolved to hoist the man up by his shoulders instead. Morse leaned into him, clearly weakened by his ordeal, and Peter wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him upright.

“Let’s get you home”, Peter said.

***

They walked slowly, and nobody bothered them. The street seemed a lot less beautiful and a lot more lonely after what had happened, and Peter couldn’t avoid shuddering as the wind carried out a chill from the river that did its very best to wrap itself around his spine. Thankfully, Morse had had the sense to get injured quite near his home, and it wasn’t a long walk.

The stairs up to Morse’s apartment were the trickiest part, because by the time they got there, Morse was so limp and tired that Peter practically needed to carry his whole weight for him, hauling him around like a mannequin doll. After they finally managed to get up the last step, Peter had to fish Morse’s key out of his pocket for him. By the time he got the door open and Morse trudged his way over to the mattress in the corner, the church bell started ringing out the chimes for four o’clock in the morning.

“Should I get DeBryn?” Peter asked, speaking for the first time since they’d left the college. “I mean, he’s a doctor, right? He could help.”   
  


Morse, lying on his bed without moving a muscle, let out an unintelligible grumble. When Peter didn’t seem to understand, he rolled over and pushed his head into the pillow. That didn’t exactly help Peter understand, but he did make out one word.

“No”, Morse mumbled, palms awkwardly turned up so he wouldn’t hurt himself again by pressing them onto something. Peter furrowed his brows, walking over to Morse and crouching down to understand him better if he did decide to say some real words.

“Morse, I need to know if I’m going to be charged for your murder, which would both be very embarrassing for you and very unfortunate for me.”

“I’m going to heal if you let me sleep”, Morse muttered. “Eight hours or so.”

Peter slowly stood up, looking around to see if Morse had some linens to go along with his mattress that served as a bed. Morse lifted his head up from the pillow, eyes half-closed, and spoke again.

“Stay”, Morse said. “Please.”

It was probably the least he could do, Peter reasoned, and it seemed irresponsible to leave someone in that state alone to sleep it off, vampire or not. He wasn’t sure why Morse was asking  _ him _ , and to be quite honest, he didn’t feel worthy to stay. He’d been the one who’d let Morse go after the woman alone. It was just a matter of slow thinking on his part, of not considering what kind of danger Morse would be in, of not asking Richards to go get help and follow Morse himself right away. As grim a truth as it was, the dead could stand to wait, except when they weren’t actually quite dead. Peter would’ve had no trouble climbing over a silver fence, and Morse could’ve been spared the pain if he’d been clever enough.

“I don’t want to bother you”, Peter said softly, deciding that it was best to save the guilt-trip and self-loathing for later. Morse shook his head.

“We’ll need to carry on the investigation tomorrow”, Morse said. God, the bastard was stubborn. Peter didn’t know how to answer, so he just made a choking noise at the back of his throat. Very elegant, but somehow that earned a tired smile from Morse.

“That’s right, Peter. I’ve got pillows and some blanket in… the cupboard over there, I think.”

  
“Then why on earth aren’t  _ you  _ using them?” Peter asked, some of the concern bleeding out of his voice and being replaced by astonishment for how much of a mess Morse truly was. Morse laughed.

“Excellent question”, he said, voice a bit slurred. “Probably vampire stuff. I’ll tell you when I wake up. Good night, Peter.”

And he was out like a candle, still fully dressed, and seemingly pretty unbothered by it. Sleeping in his day-clothes on a regular basis didn’t seem too out of place for Morse. The thing with the linens just might’ve been that Morse just slept so rarely that he was  _ bad at it _ . Peter didn’t want to intrude on Morse’s privacy, but he did take off his shoes for him before starting to rummage through the cupboard to find himself something sufficiently soft to rest on.

Peter stripped down to his vest and pants, made sure that no candles were left burning, and slipped under the surprisingly comfortable blanket he’d dug out from the back of Morse’s cupboard. He didn’t feel too bad about hogging it - Morse was as cool to the touch as ever, and probably wasn’t bothered by it. Hopefully, at least, because otherwise he’d wake up to a grumpy vampire demanding to know why Peter had betrayed him. He did do the vampire the courtesy of slipping a pillow under his head - as much as Morse liked to pretend he didn’t need the same comforts as humans did, Peter was pretty sure that neck pain was an universal experience.

The last thought in Peter’s head before he fell asleep was that Morse looked like an angel when he dreamt, his ginger curls falling onto the pillow like a cloud, or a crown. The worried crease of his forehead melted away, and as Peter finally got the chance to study his features without being distracted by the ever-curious eyes, he realised that there were some faded freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks. It was an unexpectedly sweet thought, to think they had persisted even after decades, even centuries, of staying out of the sun.

If vampires did dream, Peter hoped Morse was dreaming of something peaceful and lovely, and if not, at least a particularly tasty neck to chow on.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter woke to harsh sun in his eyes, the kind of light that could’ve looked beautifully golden when admired from afar, but as it was now, rested heavily on his eyelids and made waking up considerably harder than it usually was.

It took him a second to remember where he was, and when he did, he scrambled up from his makeshift bed, rushing to draw the curtains in. God, he really should’ve thought of that problem sooner - if Morse wasn’t so adamant about sleeping curled up in the corner on his cheap mattress, it could’ve been dangerous. Peter didn’t know what direct sunlight did to vampires, per se, but he didn’t want to particularly find out, either.

He pulled on his shirt and trousers before finding the jacket he’d had the sense to hang up (Morse didn’t have any coathangers, so the door-knob of his closet had needed to suffice) to dig up his pocket-watch. It was half noon already, which explained why Peter was starving.

Morse was still asleep, clutching the pillow to his face. What Peter saw of his hands seemed much better, the angry dark lines more like month-old scars than acute wounds. He was glad - he didn’t know if he would’ve had the guts to go up to DeBryn and tell him what had happened to his friend when him and Peter were left to their own devices. Especially as the good doctor was currently in possession of Peter’s gun. Peter wasn’t particularly averse to silver, but he could bet any sort of bullet would hurt like a bitch if someone with DeBryn’s precision was doing the aiming.

Peter didn’t have time to worry about concerned vampires for now, however, because he needed food. Morse had nothing in his sorry excuse for a kitchen, except for a loaf of bread that looked like it was going to grow legs any minute. Peter tossed it in the trash, and then decided to take the trash out with him - leaving it to Morse didn’t seem very polite. He put on his shoes and jacket, and grabbed Morse’s key from where he’d left it at his desk when they’d got in the night before. As he patted himself down to make sure he had everything he needed, he glanced back at Morse one more time.

The poor bastard could probably use some food too. And since he looked a little sad just lying there, Peter threw the blanket he’d slept under over Morse before finally heading out the door. He also peeked into Morse’s kitchen drawers, and was relieved to find that at least he owned a pan and a kettle. Maybe they’d been left behind by the previous resident, and who knew how long ago that had been, but since they were unbroken and seemingly functional, Peter didn’t mind.

He stopped by his own lodgings at Kemp Hall before heading to the market, mostly to grab money and to let his superiors know he was still alive. The constable on duty at the front desk didn’t seem too impressed with him.

“I’m glad you’re still around, but you left us a right mess to deal with last night, Jakes”, the man - a new recruit, Peter was pretty sure his name was Wilkes, told him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m on it”, Peter said, too famished to even consider staying around to give a full report. It could wait, and besides, he had a feeling that he’d have a much bigger chance of cracking the case with Morse than any of his fellow officers. Wilkes simply shook his head, but let Peter pass through without incident. Peter would definitely hear about it later, and he was lucky it was the new man who he’d run into instead of the Inspector or someone as hard-boiled.

When his pockets were sufficiently full, he headed to the market. There was no chance of getting the best stuff anymore, since you had to be up by dawn for that, but he managed to scrape together a pretty decent array of breakfast items - eggs and butter and toast, mostly, but also enough tea to leave some around for Morse to keep, since Peter thought he definitely needed some help when it came to entertaining guests.

Then came the tricky part. Peter tried not to seem suspicious as he casually wandered into the nearest butchershop. He was glad it wasn’t too busy at this time of the day - even the most forgetful servants of Oxford’s prissy and posh lot wouldn’t be coming around for dinner supplies for some hours, and the careful ones had probably done their shopping in the early morning.

“Good day”, Peter said. The man behind the counter initially only let out a grunt, but when he looked up at Peter, he visibly flinched.

“Christ, thought I’d seen a ghost”, the man said. “Good day, sir. I would’ve thought it highly dangerous for you to venture out in such bright weather, pardon my boldness. Not that I don’t admire your dedication to our shop, but -”

“Uh… what?” Peter asked, looking around to see if someone particularly strange had stepped into the shop at the same time with him. “Look, I - I’d actually like to buy some -”

“Blood, I know, don’t be squeamish about it”, the butcher said, smiling at him. “Hold on.”

As the man left for the back room, Peter realised what the misunderstanding was.

“Oh, no, no”, Peter said as the man returned. The butcher raised an eyebrow, looking a bit annoyed at having been sent to fetch him a generous pitcherful for nothing, but sighed and went to turn back around.

“I mean, yes!” Peter said. “It’s just - it’s for a… friend. I’m not… you know.”

The butcher set the container on the counter, before leaning in a little closer to inspect Peter.

“I could’ve sworn otherwise”, the man said. “Not saying it to be rude, obviously, but you’ve got a certain look about yourself.”

Peter smiled politely at that, before handing over the money. It was surprisingly cheap, but then again, it probably wasn’t in high demand right now. Not yet, anyway - if the dead kept rising, the shop would probably get its share of the problem in the form of irate, ravenous customers refusing to stand in line.

***

  
Morse was still asleep when Peter made it back, which was pretty lucky, to spare him he awkwardness of having to explain what he was doing with his keys. Peter knew he could’ve just come home and returned in the nightfall, leaving Morse alone for the day to clear his head, but for some reason, he felt compelled to return. Morse himself had insisted they keep up the investigation the moment they’d be able to again, and Peter didn’t want to go against him on that, since he’d been so determined even when he was terribly hurt.

So that’s how Peter found himself flipping eggs over and warming toast on the frying pan, Morse’s unusual book arrangements cleared away to make room for the kettle and the groceries Peter had brought. Peter had opened the window just in case, because he didn’t particularly feel like breathing in the fumes of the gas stove, but left the curtains in front of it shut as tightly as he could manage. He was just about to pry his eggs off the pan when Morse stirred, confused and sleepy, looking like a bird that had got its feathers ruffled in the rain.

“... what?” Morse asked, slowly sitting up. Peter grinned at him, turning the stove off.

“Breakfast”, Peter said, making the finished toast appear from behind his back like a stage magician. “Can you eat?”

Morse sniffed the air, then stared at Peter’s delicious egg-on-toast dish, then tilted his head.

“I can taste things, but it would be a bit of a waste to eat them, wouldn’t it”, Morse said, combing his fingers through his hair. “But I’ll manage.”

“Don’t worry, I thought about you too”, Peter said, nodding his head at the pitcher of blood he’d set on Morse’s table. “We’ll have to keep you well-fed if we want to get on top of things today. On top of things that aren’t silver fences, mind you.”

Morse scoffed, but got up regardless, sitting at the table and opening the cork of the pitcher like a drunkard at the local pub. His hands seemed to be in better shape still than how they’d been when Peter had left, the only memory of last night’s horrors being the fading, angry red shapes of the fence-tops imprinted onto Morse’s palms.

“We can’t wait until nighttime”, Morse said, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s nearing one, right? Shirley must have arrived by now. She doesn’t live far, but I don’t think we should waste any more time than we already did last night.”

“We weren’t  _ wasting time _ , Morse, you were  _ wounded _ ”, Peter said, and the gravity of his words might’ve been somewhat negatively impacted by the toast in his mouth, but he meant every single one of them regardless. He swallowed before continuing. “I know it might not seem like a big deal to someone who heals as fast as you do, but I thought you were going to  _ die _ .”

They stared at each other, Morse drinking in almost rebellious silence, Peter watching his throat work. He didn’t know what had gotten into him, what had made him so uncharacteristically honest, and he didn’t know how to step back from the terror that had probably crept into his voice again without making an even worse fool out of himself.

“I… I’m touched that you care”, Morse eventually said. “Truly, Peter.”

Something in his eyes made him look young,  _ vulnerable _ , even. As much as Morse put up a prickly front, and as much as he seemed a good man that wanted to see justice done for goodness’ sake instead of justice’s alone, Peter hadn’t seen that side of him before. It moved him, and he had to swallow around a lump in his throat before he spoke again.

“Let’s just try not to do it again today, alright?” Peter said. “For starters, is there a way for you to go out during sunlight hours without burning to a crisp?”

Turned out there was, although it was a bit embarrassing. Peter had never felt as close to the posh upper classes that had nothing to do all day but stroll around as if they owned the city as he did now, holding a parasol for Morse. Thankfully, it was rather stylish and not at all like the frilly things the ladies would usually favour, and Morse didn’t make him hold it for him all the way - his hands were healed enough that he could use them, and he’d brought gloves along as a safety measure.

Morse’s friend Shirley lived close by, and Morse and Peter walked there in silence. When they arrived, Morse didn’t waste time before knocking.

“What do we do if she’s… not awake?” Peter asked. However, Morse didn’t need to respond, because they promptly heard steps from inside, then a key being turned in the lock.

The door was opened slowly, with the caution Peter had learned to expect from vampires by now, and for a moment, all that could be seen was one chestnut brown eye and a sliver of blonde hair sticking up in all directions. When the person behind the door spotted Morse, she opened the door further, careful not to let sunlight in. The pentice hanging above helped a little, but she was right to be cautious, still.

“Morse! What on earth are you doing outside?” the woman asked. Morse gave her an apologetic smile.

“Shirley, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but we need to ask you something. This is sergeant Peter Jakes, from the City Police. We’ve been looking into something together”, Morse explained, all the while fiddling with his gloves. Peter got the sudden urge to gently grab Morse’s hand, not to stop him, but to find out what was so fascinating about the material. However, he was sufficiently distracted when Shirley opened the door further and stuck out her hand. Peter took it, and it felt a little less cold than Morse’s, but he couldn’t help shivering a little. Shirley smiled at him, a little wicked, and Peter got the feeling that this woman wasn’t someone you could mess with.

“Shirley Trewlove. Pleasure to meet you”, she said. “Come in.”

As she let them in, Peter looked her over, both out of habit and out of curiosity. She was admittedly very good-looking, although she looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. Not that Peter knew what the acceptable sleeping schedule for vampires was, but Shirley seemed worn, and Peter could tell that she wasn’t like that all the time. Unlike Morse, whose coat seemed even more ragged than usually now that he was propping up the seemingly more well-maintained parasol next to where he’d hung it.

“My house is a mess right now”, Shirley said, leaning against the wall and rubbing at her eyes. “Max sent a note that you two might be coming around, but… well, to be quite truthful, I couldn’t be bothered. I was thinking I’d take care of it tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it”, Morse said. “How was the journey back?”

“Long as ever”, Shirley said. “But I managed.”

The curt answer seemed out of character for her, and a look over at Morse revealed to Peter that it was indeed the case. When Peter looked at Shirley again, however, he saw the friendly but definitely not too trusting look on her face, and knew it was because of him. Morse might’ve got out more information out of her if he’d come alone, but after last night, Peter found himself very reluctant to let him wander on his own, vampire or not. Maybe it was a bit odd of him, but in his defense, Morse’s sense of self-preservation did seem questionable at best.

“Look, I’d love to chat more, Morse, but you’d really be better off asking your questions now and not when I’m half-conscious”, Shirley said. “What really brings you here?”

Peter bit back the snarky question that he wanted to throw at her, asking what had brought  _ her  _ back so suddenly from wherever she’d been, but Morse launched into an explanation of their investigations before he could. That was very lucky, and it gave Peter the chance to observe the look on Shirley’s face. It shifted from vaguely interested to a little bit apprehensive, and when Morse mentioned the woman attacking him at the Plain, her expression turned downright guilty.

“You know something!” Peter interrupted them, prompting the vampires to turn and look at him in shock. “I can’t believe you would hold back information from us, when Morse already got hurt and -”

“Watch it”, Shirley snapped at him. “It’s not my fault that old vampires are on the roam again, but… yeah, there  _ is  _ something. I didn’t tell you right away because Morse would’ve said it’s stupid.”

Morse looked at her, puzzled.

“You can tell me anything, you know that, right?” Morse asked, voice soft and eyes gentle. “Just because I might be a bit specific in my own tastes, doesn’t mean I’d judge you for -”

“There’s a midnight ball two nights from now, on Saturday”, Shirley interrupted him. “And I’m attending. With… a friend.”

Peter didn’t know what was going on. He looked at Morse for support, and found that he was trying to hold back a condescending smile. Shirley pouted at him.

“See, this is why I didn’t let you know! But just because you’re snooty about going to things like this, doesn’t mean we all have to be”, Shirley said. “I’m already preparing, and I’m going to have a magnificent time, alright? From what I’ve been told, it’s going to be lavish, and since it’s not invite-only or anything, I don’t think it’s going to be some kind of aristocratic echo chamber.”

Morse sighed, rubbing his temples. Peter decided to take the lead, because even though he definitely wasn’t too familiar with the intricacies of vampire society, he could do his best to pick up where Morse left off and infer the rest from context.

“So do you think that this… midnight ball might be the reason the dead are rising?” Peter asked. “Is it all vampires attending?”   
“Well, yes - it’s all the rage, given that news of it reached me all the way in Plymouth”, Shirley said. “So it could definitely be possible. Of course, I don’t know why just now, because it’s not like this is the first event ever, but…”

“But?” Peter prompted. Shirley’s eyes were sharp as she faced him, and Peter wondered whether he’d come off too curious, too suspicious for her to share any more. She did speak again, after a moment of pause.

“The man organising it, someone named Carrington. He’s a bit weird, but mostly in a good way, and… well, I personally think that if someone wanted to stop being the in-the-ground variation of vampire, he’d be the first to encourage them to do so”, Shirley explained.

“I’ve never heard of him”, Morse muttered, as Peter pitched in: “How so?”

“There are rumours, of him being seen with - look, I don’t know anything more”, Shirley said, running her fingers through her hair, looking defiantly at Peter and the new questions that died on his lips. “You should probably check with the folks at The Viper. Actually, you might as well go now, since they tend to live dangerously, and it’s in the shade anyway. Morse knows the place, don’t you?”

“I do”, Morse said. “Look, Shirley, I’m sorry we had to barge in like this, but this is important. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us?”

Shirley looked at Morse for a long while, mouth drawn into a tight line. She looked like she would’ve sunk right through the wall if she had the ability, but as it was, she was stuck standing in her own entrance hall with Morse and Peter throwing rapid-fire questions at her when she would’ve rather been sleeping off whatever toll travelling to Oxford had taken on her.

“No”, Shirley eventually said. “I’m sorry. Good luck on the search, though.”


	4. Chapter 4

The houses that lined Shirley’s street seemed unfriendly in their brightness as Morse and Peter exited the house, the limestone walls rising up from the ground like a white cliff. Morse opened his parasol again before stepping out onto the street, and Peter followed him. He was getting a bit tired of needing Morse to lead him everywhere, since he  _ had  _ lived in Oxford for several years now, and had thought himself somewhat of an expert when it came to the streets. But apparently vampire haunts did their best to blend into their surroundings, and Peter had never had a reason to enter one before, so it would have to do.

“What was that all about?” Peter asked Morse. Morse looked up at him, his steel-blue eyes shocking him all over again as he seemed to stare straight into Peter’s soul, but the look quickly softened.

“She was tired”, Morse said. “And there’s something she can’t or won’t tell us, for sure. But she’s my friend, and it wouldn’t have done us any good to pressure her anyway. We can only hope we find out where this ball is organised from someone else.”

“From what she said, I thought you hated the very idea of going”, Peter said, grinning. Morse held back a smile, rolling his eyes fondly.

“It’s not that I detest the thought of attending, I just don’t like crowds too much”, Morse said. “Or certain people, the aristocratic lot she was talking about. They can be a bit up themselves. But this investigation is too important for us to skip it, if the man behind this all is definitely attending.”

Peter nodded, and they walked in silence for a moment. They passed a college, and Peter saw a few of the boys sitting on its wall gawking at Morse and his parasol. When he looked back at Morse, the vampire seemed unbothered.

“Wait, you said  _ us _ ”, Peter said, the thought dawning on him. “Does this mean I -”

“If you don’t have a proper suit, we can rent one, don’t worry”, Morse said. “And I think Max might have something in your size, he’s holding onto clothes for friends that sometimes pass through. We’ll see.”

“You didn’t even ask whether I had other plans for Saturday night”, Peter said, frowning. Morse smiled at him.

“If you had a doting fiancée waiting at home, I don’t think you would’ve slept over last night”, Morse pointed out. “We’re almost there, by the way.”

Peter looked around, but there wasn’t a pub in sight. They had stopped in the middle of the street, and a bookshop lay ahead. St Mary Magdalen’s church was across the road, and for a moment, Peter entertained the thought of someone having set up a secret vampire pub in a crypt. That didn’t seem likely, however, since he figured the vicar might have something to say about it.

When he turned to Morse in confusion, the vampire made the smallest nod towards a very narrow alley, the entrance half-covered by climbing vines that stretched across the whole building they were standing next to. Fair enough.

“The entrance is on an inner courtyard”, Morse said. “But I don’t know if you should come.”

The words hurt more than Peter had expected, and even though he had reasoned that way himself multiple times by now, he found himself unwilling to let Morse go alone. He couldn’t handle the guilt if something happened again, and even though he was a human and hadn’t brought his service revolver along, he could land a pretty solid punch if it came down to it. He didn’t need to be coddled, and Morse must’ve known that.

“What, so you can run after someone again and get yourself maimed? No way”, Peter said. Morse sighed, but closed his parasol and then grabbed Peter by the wrist to pull him into the alleyway regardless.

They squeezed through the passage, then turned a corner, and found themselves standing in a small, covered courtyard. The entrance to The Viper was in front of them, the weathered sign adorned with a golden snake pretty unassuming considering what was behind the door. Peter could very well imagine someone wandering in by accident and being rather unpleasantly surprised by the drink menu.

Morse climbed up the stairs to the door and peeked in through the stained-glass window before trying to open it.

“Locked”, Morse said, as a click confirmed the door’s refusal to budge. “But there might be a sort of back door hidden somewhere here. You should look through the other side of the yard, and maybe I’ll be able to…”

“Who’s there?” a shout came from the inside. Morse and Peter both froze, then bolted for the alleyway, before realising there were echoing steps coming from that direction too. They stared at each other in wild panic for a second, before Peter pointed at a conveniently placed shed in the corner of the yard. Morse followed him as he ran behind it, and just in time, because that’s when they heard someone entering the courtyard from the alley.

A door inside the pub opened, then the front door, and someone walked out.

“Vernier, finally”, a woman said. “I thought it was the boys in blue barging in. Did you hear that noise?”

“I did”, a man responded, and his steps echoed through the courtyard. “I’ve heard of strange things happening here in Oxford. Vampires being chased after if they seem too old, and nosey policemen going around asking questions. I don’t know who started it, but it would do all of us good if someone put a stop to it.”

“Probably. I do hope it doesn’t get violent”, the woman said. “Would be bad for business, wouldn’t it?”

The sound of footsteps continued to circle around the courtyard, and a cold dread filled Peter, sliding down the nape of his neck and along his spine.

“They’re going to know I’m a copper if they find me here”, Peter whispered. “No other reason for a human and a vampire to be milling around here in broad daylight.

“This is why I told you you shouldn’t have come”, Morse hissed, eyes wide in fear. Peter shook his head, because starting an argument would solve nothing: they didn’t have much time before they would be found out, and they needed a plan,  _ fast _ . There was no way out that wouldn’t get them spotted and caught, and having Morse distract the vampires while Peter snuck out probably wouldn’t work out either, given how good their hearing undoubtedly was.

Looking at Morse, who was leaning against the wall next to him, not breathing but very alert and completely still, gave Peter another idea.

“Will I turn if you bite me?” Peter asked. Morse looked at him in shock.

“It’s not an easy process, and it takes more than a bite”, Morse snapped. “And it’s out of the question.”

“I don’t want to jump camp”, Peter whispered frantically. “But if they think you’re feeding, they’ll leave us alone. Come on, bite me.”

Morse drew in a sharp breath, but nodded. Peter closed his eyes, resting his back against the wall of the shed, trying not to think of what was about to happen. He didn’t know what the survival rate of vampire attacks usually was, but he was sure his fate would be worse if they got found out and Peter was handed over to the people searching for them.

He didn’t open his eyes, because he  _ didn’t want to see the teeth _ , but shed his coat from one shoulder and undid the topmost button of his shirt. There was a gentle, cold hand on his shoulder, then another one on his cheek, carefully bending his head to expose his neck. Peter shuddered in fear and anticipation, but Morse squeezed his shoulder, clearly trying to comfort him.

“I’m sorry”, Morse whispered. “If this goes wrong, I…” 

“I trust you”, Peter breathed out. There was some more conversation from the courtyard, but his heart was thudding in his ears so wildly that he couldn’t make sense of it, and he didn’t really notice the steps approaching the shed and then starting to walk around it, towards where they were hiding and desperately hoping that maybe they wouldn’t be found out after all, that maybe the vampire looking for them would lose interest before reaching the back of the shed, that maybe it was all a dream. At least that was what Peter was hoping for. He couldn’t speak for Morse, whose body he felt against his, who he realised had never stood this close to him before. There was a certain thrill to that, and Peter found himself smiling despite the situation even as he heard the footsteps coming even closer.

“Hey, what are you -” 

The rest of the unknown man’s voice was drowned out by a sharp flash of pain that took Peter’s breath away, starting from his neck but soon spreading throughout like his body like a shockwave. He gasped and tried to get free, shoving Morse away by his chest, but he didn’t budge, as if he’d turned into stone while Peter had been squeezing his eyes shut. One of Morse’s hands travelled down his arm and seized it by the wrist, pressing Peter against the wall to keep him in place. That’s when there was a surge of warmth in Peter’s veins, and he felt something soft against his neck, like a dream or a lover’s heavy look. He realised it must’ve been Morse pressing his lips against his skin, drinking from him, trying to bleed his life-force away. It should’ve been terrifying still, but Peter found himself rather comfortable, surrounded by Morse and held in place by an all-encompassing feeling of wholeness.

It stopped for a second, the warmth starting to seep out of him into the cold autumn air, and Peter whined in protest, but couldn’t find the strength open his eyes. He realised Morse was still holding on to his wrist, but had stepped back.

“Back off, he’s mine”, Morse growled, the words floating into Peter’s brain as if from somewhere far away. It made his heart skip a beat, and as he opened his eyes in shock, he saw through the blur a tall, black-haired man staring at them from a few feet away, hands empty and raised with their palms towards Morse in an effort to placate him.

“Okay, sorry, sorry”, the vampire said, and the words echoed in Peter’s ears without proper ends or beginnings. “Just make sure to clean up after you’re done.”

Morse gave a noncommittal grunt, and then the feeling returned again, Peter throwing his head back and banging it against the shed wall as he felt the flickering warmth return, seeping through his skin where Morse’s lips met it, making his heart beat faster in a desperate effort to give Morse more, to keep him satisfied. Peter groped blindly before finding the back of Morse’s head, pressing him closer, trying to keep him by his side for as long as the world would let him. That seemed to make Morse realise what he was doing, and contrary to all of Peter’s efforts,  _ stop _ .

“Shit, Peter, you’re going to bleed out”, Morse said, the panic clear in his voice. Peter simply slumped against the wall, a smile tugging at his lips. If he was going to die now, he would die happy and content, and wasn’t that what all of life’s efforts really aimed towards? He didn’t mind too much, and as he tried to open his eyes, his vision was blurry. He couldn’t see the sun, and it was a pity, because he would’ve loved to look into Morse’s eyes one last time…

There was the sound of fabric ripping, and a piece of cloth was pressed against Peter’s neck. He’d much rather have had it be Morse’s lips again, but that felt fine too. Strong hands pulled him away from the wall, keeping him upright before helping him sit down. Peter felt his own hand being moved to press the cloth against his skin, and when he opened his eyes again, he could already make out the lines between the tiling of the floor as he stared at it, resting his head between his legs. He heard Morse say something, but it was so unclear that he simply frowned. Only when Morse spoke again did he understand what was going on.

“Peter, can you stand up? We need to get you out of here”, Morse said, and his voice seemed to be nearer than anything had been in a while. Peter took that as a good sign, and looked up, locking eyes with Morse’s gorgeous steel-blue ones once again.

“That’s it”, Morse said, and offered his hand. Peter grabbed it, pulling himself up off the ground, and found that he could stand on his own feet without faltering. He still didn’t let go of Morse’s hand, though, because there was something  _ off  _ about it.

“Your hand”, Peter said, and as he looked at Morse again, his vision seemed to have returned to normal. There was some blood on Morse’s hands, but his face was clean - maybe he’d wiped his mouth on his sleeve. What horrible table manners the man had. Morse tilted his head.

“What about it?” Morse asked, voice soft, one hand behind Peter’s back to make sure he wouldn’t fall. That made Peter smile.

“It’s  _ warm _ ”, Peter said, squeezing Morse’s hand for good measure. Morse stared at him with a bit of an odd look on his face.

“Feeding on humans does that”, Morse said. “Look, I’m so sorry I went so far, I just haven’t done that in ages and -”

Peter put his free hand on Morse’s cheek, stroking his thumb over a cheekbone, marvelling at the deep blush that was decorating it. Then, he leaned in, basking in their shared warmth for a second before capturing Morse’s upper lip in a kiss.

Morse froze for a second, and Peter worried that he’d irreparably overstepped a boundary, but then, he was kissing back, clutching at the back of Peter’s coat and pulling him close. Peter smiled into the kiss, letting Morse cradle him in his arms, keeping him close as he struggled to remember to breathe. It was unfair on so many levels, from the fact that Morse had probably had centuries to practice kissing to the equally unfair fact that he  _ didn’t need to breathe _ . Still, Morse was the first to pull away, leaving Peter gasping for air as he gently untangled himself.

“ _ Fuck _ ”, Morse said, and it was probably the most attractive thing Peter had heard anyone say.

“Why’d you stop?” Peter breathed, trying to pull Morse in again, but Morse let go of his hand. That was another nasty shock, but it was somewhat softened by the look in Morse’s eyes as Peter looked up at him. He seemed a bit confused, a bit worried as well, but mostly  _ in awe _ , his gaze soft and tender and his lips curved into a smile. That was good, because otherwise Peter might’ve cried.

“We can’t stay here”, Morse said. “And you’re not in any shape to make decisions. Come on.”

***

They left the courtyard and the alley without incident. Morse had had the mind to shed his gloves before things got messy, and he winced as he pulled them back on to cover the evidence of what they’d been up to. It was harder to cover the fact that the tails of Morse’s shirt were now torn, except that the coat did do that job pretty well - they’d just have to hope there was no need to remove the coat before Morse could change clothes.

It was already getting dark, and as such, they didn’t need to rush back home. Wherever that was, that is - Peter certainly needed a bath, and he doubted that Morse’s facilities in that regard were the best, but he couldn’t exactly bring a vampire friend to stay over at his apartment upstairs at the police station. The thought of being parted from Morse right now was unbearable, however, so they resolved to cross the street and sit down at a bench in the churchyard. They kept up no pretense of keeping their distance, and even though there was room on the bench for them to sit far apart, Peter still found himself brushing thighs with Morse as they sat down.

“Are you alright?” Morse asked. Peter nodded. He was still pressing the piece of cloth against his neck, not sure whether it was to stop the bleeding or to avoid the pain of tearing it off.

“It was wild”, Peter said, grinning. “I used to think people were stupid to get themselves bitten. But it’s… you really can’t do anything about it, can you, once someone pounces on you.”

“Most people don’t get to choose”, Morse said. “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I’d turned you, or worse. Hell, for a while, I was afraid that I’d gone too far.”

“But you didn’t”, Peter said. “I told you I trust you. And unless you got blackout drunk on me and missed the action, you probably know by now that I rather fancy you as well.”

Morse blushed again, and it was the most wonderful thing to witness. Peter smiled, leaning in to press a quick peck on Morse’s cheek. When Morse looked at him again, however, his eyes were wet.

“It’s complicated”, Morse said, and Peter’s face fell. If Morse was about to tell him he didn’t fancy men, he would probably laugh in his face, but in the end, there  _ were  _ a thousand other reasons for him to be apprehensive as well.

“I do like you, but we hardly know each other”, Morse said. “And you must promise me you won’t ask me to turn you, not so soon. I - well, long story short, there was once a girl that I thought I’d spend the rest of my -  _ our  _ \- immortal life with. As you might see, she’s not here.”

Peter looked at Morse carefully. He didn’t want to pry, and Morse didn’t seem willing to share anything else, but neither did Peter know whether to offer pity or sympathy or some sort of encouraging turn of phrase. They simply sat in silence, looking at the trees planted on the churchyard swaying in the light wind, leaves rustling in the darkness and letting through some of the quickly fading autumn light.

“No offense, but being a vampire seems like a lot of work”, Peter said. “And even if that changes, there’s no rush to do anything, is there? We have plenty of time to get to know each other. Once this case is sorted out, at the very least.”

“I hope so”, Morse said. Peter took his hand and squeezed it.

“I know you’re not dangerous to me”, Peter said. “Although I wouldn’t mind you drinking from me again, if you ever feel so inclined. It felt - God, I can’t even describe it. As if I was -”

“Care to spare a little more?” a voice asked from behind them. Peter jumped at it, and Morse was on his feet in an instant, staring daggers at whoever was speaking. At first, they saw nothing, but slowly, the figure of a russet-haired woman emerged from the shadows.

  
She was pale, her hair done up in an elegant bun, and dressed in a willowy white dress that made her look like a spectre.

“Relax, boys, I’m only joking”, the woman said. “And curious like any neighbourhood busybody. It’s not every day that someone my age gets to witness such high emotion…”

“Where did you come from?” Morse barked at her. The woman simply shrugged her shoulders.

“It would do you good to ask a lady for her name before speaking to her, Endeavour Morse”, the woman said, smiling. “The youth of today really have no manners.”

Peter tried not to react to the revelation of Morse’s first name, because the mention seemed to have sent the man himself into a sort of catatonic state. The woman seemed to see right through his efforts, though, as she looked on in sympathy at Morse opening and closing his mouth fruitlessly, then staring at the woman in numb, furious embarrassment. 

“May we ask you your name, then, miss…?” Peter started. The woman nodded approvingly.

“Dorothea Frazil”, she said. “And you probably know yourself where I came from, Peter Jakes.”

Peter looked down at her feet, saw that she wore no shoes, and that the hem of her dress was covered in fine dust and mud. As he followed the trail of disturbed ground she’d left behind, he realised that the tracks led to an open grave. And sure enough, a nearby candle lit up a name that matched the one she’d given them.

“You’re one of the risen”, Peter said. “But that doesn’t explain how you know things about us.”

“It’s my job to know. In fact, back in the day I used to know everything about this place”, Dorothea said, resting her hand against the wall of the church. “But that’s in the past. I’m excited to see what the future holds.”

“If you’re going to speak in riddles, you might as well give us some information through them”, Morse said, mostly recovered from his shock. “That’s what the fates do, at least proper ones.”

Dorothea smiled at them, dusting off her dress a little and adjusting the sleeves before continuing to speak.

“You’re flattering me, Morse. But you two did provide me some much-needed entertainment, so fine. What do you want to know?”

“Why did you rise?” Peter asked. “For the ball, right?”

He had no idea why every vampire woman seemed to be crazy enough about this ball that they would travel through the country or climb out of their very grave to attend. Maybe it had something to do with showing off some extravagant gowns - hell, had Peter been of the fairer sex, he would’ve probably enjoyed that as well, and he knew for a fact that ordinary, living ladies did. But Dorothea shook her head.

“Not really. I simply enjoy my unlife now that I can again, and I’ve got no desire to go back into an empty existence”, Dorothea said. “Don’t get me wrong, Carrington is a bit mental, but as long as it means I get to live, I’ll live with his ideas. And who knows, if I find it in myself to dress up, I might be at the ball overmorrow.”

“What’s he got to do with it?” Peter asked. “I thought you just… dug yourself up.”

“Carrington had to wake me first”, Dorothea said. “He’s been going around graveyards, singing to the dead. Not all heed the call, but some of us do, and after that, it takes very little to decide that the decision to be buried for all eternity was premature.”

  
“Now, gentlemen, I hope you’ll excuse me. The sun has almost set, and I’m a little peckish”, Dorothea said. Peter flinched at the implication, but did nothing as Dorothea walked past them, the willowy dress flowing behind her like a dove’s wings mid-flight.

“Wait!” Morse shouted, and miraculously, managed to stop Dorothea. She turned to look at him.

“If someone wanted to attend this… ball, how would they go about it, so to speak?”

Dorothea smiled at them.

“Alright, but this is the last piece of information you’ll get out of me”, she warned. “Go to the crypt of Saint Peter in the East, and follow the lights. It should be fairly straightforward.”

And before they could question her any further, she was gone.

***

The churchyard seemed colder after Dorothea had gone, which was odd, considering she was the haunting, supernatural creature that logically should’ve been the cause of Peter’s shivering. He drew his coat tighter around himself as they walked out of the gate with Morse, and Morse noticed, because of course he did.

“It’s the blood loss”, Morse said, rubbing Peter’s upper arm as they walked. His hands were still warm, although not as warm as they’d been in front of the pub, and Peter couldn’t help but lean into the touch. “Max should have some iron supplements in his medical stash. And we should probably visit him anyway, if you can manage it.”

“Yeah, sure”, Peter said. “But I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

The shock on Morse’s face made him laugh out loud.

“What, you forgot humans eat too?” Peter asked. “And not just every week or so either?”

“I’m so sorry”, Morse said. “Especially since I just  _ fed on you  _ like that with nothing in return. God, Peter, how could I have been so stupid? I don’t know how to make this up to -”

“You  _ could  _ buy me something at that chip shop”, Peter said, pointing forward on the street. “Although I’m also expecting a fancy dinner someday.”

And that’s how Peter found himself looking on as Morse waded through the process of getting him some dinner by himself. He did perform admirably - one would think a vampire would’ve had trouble keeping up with changes in coins and such, but as Morse had to do all of his (however meagre) everyday shopping himself, he wasn’t too much of a fish out of water. The look on the seller’s face was pretty precious, though, because even when Morse looked a little more lively now that he’d fed on human blood, the pale sheen of his skin and the unnatural depthness of the blue of his eyes couldn’t go unnoticed.

Peter pretty much wolfed down his meal, which was a rather admirable feat even if he said it himself, considering they kept walking. After all the brush-ups he’d had with vampires over the past 24 hours, it was nice to feel alive and completely ordinary for once. This was how he very probably would’ve spent a night if Morse hadn’t come to him with this bizarre case to solve - on patrol in the cold, the tip of his nose freezing but his fingers kept warm by the chips. He was glad for Morse’s presence, though. It had been a while since he’d worked this closely with someone else, the other Oxford policemen friendly enough but still a bit vary of him as a newcomer, and the few detectives that had come along with him from London so familiar that he found himself falling into patterns with them. A change was welcome in that regard, and with every passing day, Peter was starting to consider bringing up the matter with the Inspector. They certainly could’ve benefited from someone familiar with the ways of vampires, as they did sometimes cause a very specific kind of trouble, not to mention the fact that Morse’s brain would’ve been an asset to them regardless of his vampirism.

They arrived at Max’s house, and when Morse knocked, there was no response.

“He’s probably in the garden”, Morse said. “Come on.”

That was indeed where they found him, circling around the house and then the low wooden fence until they reached the gate. Peter opened the latch, stepping in, and Max looked up from where he was knelt planting some sort of bushy… bush. No flowers at this time of year.

“Oh, hello, Sergeant”, Max said. Peter nodded politely.

“Dr DeBryn”, he acknowledged, stepping away from the gate to make way for Morse to follow him. Morse stood his ground, however, looking a little helpless.

“Why aren’t you coming in?” Peter asked. Morse shifted his weight from one foot to another, but didn’t say anything.

“Morse, do come on in”, Max said, and Morse stepped through the gate, relieved. Peter gawked at him for a moment before chuckling.

“You really have to be invited in?” Peter asked. “I thought it was one of the things that weren’t true.”

“It is true, and it can be embarrassing”, Morse said. “Shops are usually exempt, luckily, at least if they have an ‘open’ sign. Vampire burglars are pretty rare, as you might imagine.”

“Indeed”, Max said. “I’ve been expecting you, by the way. There’s something I’d like to show you. Let’s go in, no sense in standing here now that my camellia is all set.”

Peter looked at Morse. He didn’t know how to broach the issue of asking whether Max had a sink to spare so Peter could wash the evidence of Morse having taken a nibble of his throat. Sure, it was technically only feeding, something every vampire had to go through, and he didn’t need to mention what had happened after, but he didn’t know whether the bite was always intimate or if there had been some sort of exception made because of the attraction he and Morse harboured for each other. Morse seemed to be in a similar pickle, because all he gave back to Peter in answer was an incredulous stare.

“Uh… would you mind if I... “ Peter asked as they followed Max into the house. Max turned to look back at him.

“I do still have one working bathroom, if that’s what you’re after”, Max said. Peter nodded gratefully.

“I might also need a towel”, Peter said. “There was a… mishap.”

He had his collar turned up to cover it, but if he took off his coat, there would be no hiding the bloody mess on his neck. And Max would probably be able to tell if he did.

“Nothing serious, I hope?” Max said. “I’m more accustomed to patching Morse up, but I’m sure I could be of help to you as well.”

“N-no, not serious”, Peter said. “Just something I’d rather take care of before we talk more.”

“Well, I’ve got towels in the bathroom cabinet too. Just go through the kitchen, it’s that way, second door to the left”, Max said, pointing with his hand. “But don’t take too long. I’m sure you’ve been up all day, and I’d rather not be held accountable for you falling into the Cherwell on your way home.”

Peter breathed out a sigh of relief, but before he could congratulate himself on evading the situation with expertise, his collar slipped down. He pulled it up in an instant, like he’d done so many times in the street, but unfortunately, Max had keener eyes than most of the people they’d passed. Morse had seen too, and he’d pretty obviously also seen that Max had seen, because suddenly there seemed to be something stuck in his throat.

“Thank you”, Peter piped up, before slipping away as swiftly as he could to avoid facing either of the vampires. He did hear Max speak before he closed the bathroom door behind him and shut the world out.

“Well, Morse, I’m glad to see you’re eating properly for once.”

Peter shrugged off his coat, turned on the sink, and went to work cleaning himself up. The collar of his white shirt was pretty unsalvageable, and it would be somewhat hard to explain if he sent it to be cleaned with the rest of the station’s laundry, so he just might have to dig up the tub and the washboard and do it himself if he had the time. But once he’d wiped off the dried blood, there was barely anything to show for what he’d been through. Hell, even love-bites tended to be more aggressive-looking: this was just two neat nicks on the side of his neck, already healing.

He couldn’t resist running his fingers over the marks, and wondering about what sorts of other bites Morse might be willing to give out without killing him in the process. He looked forward to asking Morse that question, just to see the look on his face, and in truth, also for what would follow.

***

When Peter walked out of the bathroom, clean and somewhat less confused about the events of the day, Morse and Max were already in the sitting room waiting for him.

“Hello again, sergeant Jakes”, Max said. Peter swallowed the groan that he was tempted to let out - surely they could afford a little more familiarity, since after all, Morse was Max’s friend and also well on his way to becoming Peter’s… particular friend?

“Just Jakes is fine”, Peter said. “Or Peter, if you’re feeling bold.”

“Jakes”, Max conceded, and got up from his armchair. “Follow me, I’ve got something to show you.”

They went with Max to his home lab once more, and after a moment, he produced a very ordinary-looking metal box and Peter’s revolver.

“I didn’t exactly have the chance to test these, and there’s not too many, but based on some of the injuries I’ve seen, they should work”, Max said. “If you’re going to the ball, you need all the help you can get.”

“... so are you coming with us?” Peter asked. Max grinned at him.

“Excellent question”, Max said. “I would, but you two will need someone to put you back together if everything goes wrong.”

Peter pressed his lips into a tight line, but knew there was no arguing.

“It’s realism, I’m afraid”, Max said. “I do hope you succeed.”

“Speaking of realism”, Morse started. “It’s one thing to carry those as a deterrent, but another thing to use them. It’s - I mean, we could just attack anyone who poses a threat, but it’s not smart at all, is it. Not humane, at the very least, which is why I think we should keep those bullets far away where the rest of the City Police can get their hands on them.”

“You’re probably right”, Peter said. As much as he trusted his fellow officers, at least most of them, it would seem like an easy solution after two murders had already been committed. They’d be better off trying to solve it on their own.

“I did think of the moral conundrum”, Max said, pulling on his gloves. “Which is why I thought of some other tools the police have at their disposal.”

He brought forward a pair of handcuffs. Peter didn’t really want to know where he’d got them, and what for, but he was grateful for their existence.

“I coated the inside with a solution”, Max said. “Highly unadvisable for you to touch them, Morse. They aren’t life-threatening, but uncomfortable and sturdy enough to keep someone like us from breaking free of them.”

Morse and Peter shared a look of wary hope. If they were going to try to get Carrington to stop and let the dead rest, they needed all the help they could get. However, to Peter at least, the thought of forcing a struggling vampire into a pair of handcuffs that probably felt like molten tar to them was just as unappealing as the thought of shooting one with a silver bullet.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter finished buttoning up his ridiculously ornate and fluffy shirt, pulled the loose ends of the sleeves straight and looked at himself in the mirror.

There was still the waistcoat to put on, the silver embroidery amidst the midnight blue twinkling at him from where it was laid out on his bed, but otherwise, he was pretty much done dressing for the night. He couldn’t deny that the gorgeous materials made him feel… if not powerful, then at least very fancy. A bit ridiculous as well, since he’d never worn anything like that before, and he probably wouldn’t ever again. It was one thing to be well-dressed and another to be ostentatious, and even though Peter liked to veer into the latter territory when he had the means, he did draw the line somewhere.

But apparently that was just what he needed to blend in with a crowd of vampires, and Peter trusted Max and Morse to be more knowledgeable about the dress code than he himself was. He was grateful that Max had lent the clothes to him, because he couldn’t imagine what they must’ve cost to rent, not to mention buy.

He had no idea how he’d make it out of the station without someone realising that something very queer was afoot. And that was the least of his worries, considering what he might have to face later that night. His revolver rested innocently on the nightstand, already loaded with the first round of silver bullets.

It had been a while since he’d seen Morse last. The vampire had indeed had the courtesy to walk him home from Max’s, but told him to rest as well as possible before the night of the ball would be upon them. Peter heeded the advice, although his sleep on that first night had been cut short by the Inspector banging on his door and demanding an explanation of his erratic work schedule. He’d done his best to give an accurate statement on what he and Morse had found out during the investigations, but neglected to mention the bite. He also tried to skirt around the ball as much as he could, and only mentioned that they’d be attempting to confront a possible suspect that night.

What most astonished the Inspector and his other colleagues were the things Peter told them about Dorothea. A risen vampire that wasn’t violent seemed outlandish to them, since the memory of what had happened on the Plain was still fresh in everyone’s minds, even though they hadn’t been able to catch the vampire. Peter knew he’d have to come clean about the ball when (and to be quite honest,  _ if _ ) they returned, and he also knew it was stupid not to ask for backup, but he didn’t think he and Morse had a choice in either matter. If only there was a way to contact them from the ball itself if need arose, but alas. Maybe it would’ve been different if the days of homing pigeons hadn’t been over.

When the clock struck eleven, Peter snuck out without too much trouble and made his way to the place they’d agreed to meet at, in front of the library of Gresham College. Morse was already waiting for him there, and he was hard to miss when he stepped out of the shadows.

He was wearing a  _ cloak _ , black, heavy and gorgeous, and the rest of his look wasn’t far behind either. At first it looked like Morse hadn’t donned a waistcoat - Peter wouldn’t have complained, because the billowing white shirt did the trick all on its own - but on closer inspection, as Peter reached him, he realised that it simply was of such a fine, subtle silver colour that you could only really appreciate it up close.

“Good evening”, Peter said. He’d brought his own jacket, because after cleaning it up a little, it looked fine enough and also conveniently hid the holster he’d strapped to his belt. And since vampires didn’t mind the cold all too much, he’d have to try to be inconspicuous about keeping warm through the night. Peter didn’t yet know where exactly they would end up, but from what he’d heard of vampire stories, Gothic castles tended to be at least a little bit drafty on the inside.

“Likewise”, Morse said. Peter smiled, stepping closer and grabbing Morse’s hand. It was sadly gloved, a precautionary measure to avoid any more silver incidents, and had probably lost its lingering warmth during the time they’d spent apart, but Peter was still in awe at the simple gesture of being allowed to stand close to Morse.

“So, what am I supposed to be?” Peter asked, as they started walking down High Street. Morse did let go of his hand to avoid suspicion, but Peter didn’t mind much, because he offered his arm instead. “A friend? A business associate? Or”, he paused for dramatic effect, leaning in to whisper the last word, “a lover?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Morse’s mouth.

“If that means you’ll kiss me again, then by all means”, Morse said. “Although I would wait until the ball if I were you. It wouldn’t do to arrest yourself before we even get in.”

“Would be kind of worth it”, Peter said, and meant it, because standing side by side with Morse was honestly quite intoxicating. He could just about imagine pulling them to a halt, pressing Morse up against a wall, showing him that humans could bite too. But he also knew it really wasn’t the time to be thinking about these things, so he didn’t press further.

The church of Saint Peter in the East was much alike to its western twin, whose former churchyard this all had begun in. The only difference was that it stood in a much more cramped place, less aloof and also a bit more in need of repairing. It had already been closed for the night, the churchyard quiet and dark, but when Peter pulled at the door, it was unlocked.

“Are you going to catch fire or something if we go in?” Peter asked. Morse shook his head. Peter chuckled - well, it had been sensible enough to check - and opened the door to let Morse in.

From the inside, the church was… pretty similar to all the other churches in Oxford. Medieval, a bit eerie in the night, their footsteps echoing throughout the arches and pillars that held up the roof. Peter shivered despite his jacket, and Morse laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Been a while since I went to church”, Peter said. “Like… a long while.”

“Let’s keep moving”, Morse said, nodding towards the door on the side of the vestibule. “If this place is anything like it used to be, we’ll be able to get down from there.”

There was indeed a very steep spiral staircase behind that door, and a faint flickering light illuminated them, drawing long shadows onto the stone walls. Peter could hear every movement Morse made, as small as it was, as he started carefully descending into what was very probably the crypt. Peter took a deep breath, looked back to make sure they weren’t being followed, and went after Morse.

The crypt seemed almost warm in comparison to the church, maybe because it was more sheltered from the cold night air. Going down to it felt  _ wrong _ , because it really wasn’t something Peter was used to doing every day, and he couldn’t tell whether the place had been visited by anyone other than a priest in a long time. Anyone  _ human _ , that is, because Morse evidently knew the place, and so did some other vampires.

“Have you been here before?” Peter asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs, finally easing up his rather vice-like grip of the handrail. “I mean, you might’ve seen this built, for all I know.”

“The crypt is the oldest part of this church”, Morse said, turning back to look at Peter from where he’d been inspecting a curious tile pattern in the floor. “It’s stood here since the twelfth century. It’s been a long time since I was here last, but if I remember right, there should be a hidden tile just about… here.”

He pressed an unusually pale tile on the floor down with his foot, and with a great effort and a ear-grating dragging sound, a part of the opposite wall slid away from its place, revealing an entrance. After the wall stopped moving, Peter carefully peeked in. It was completely pitch-dark for the first thirty feet, but in the distance, he could see a flickering light, probably from a candlestick propped up against the wall.

“And where does that tunnel go?” Peter asked. Morse looked puzzled.

“To many places”, Morse said. “I used to sneak into the library after closing hours from here back in the late 1700s, but there’s no doubt that the network goes on for miles underneath the city. If we come across an intersection, I’ll have no idea which way to turn.”

“Well, that sounds great”, Peter said. “Why don’t we go in and wander underneath the city forever?”

“Don’t be a brat”, Morse said, making Peter frown at him. “There’s going to be more candles after that one, just for tonight. ‘Follow the lights’, right? I’m sure we’ll find the way.”

Peter was still suspicious, but they didn’t have a choice. As much as he hated to squeeze into a dusty, cold tunnel that really wasn’t made for wearing expensive clothing in (or any kind of suit, really), he nodded. He dug up his pocket-watch to check for the time. A quarter past eleven. That gave them enough time to find their way, as long as the ball was organised somewhere within Oxford boundaries. It really would’ve been easier to hire a hackney carriage and drive up to wherever they were supposed to be, in case they had the money, that is.

“Lead the way. I’m right behind you”, Peter said, and so they slipped into the tunnel one after the other. As they walked in the darkness, they heard the wall slide back into place behind them.

“Don’t worry, there must be a switch somewhere on this side too in case we need to get back”, Morse said, but didn’t sound so sure. Peter swallowed his doubtful comment out of politeness.

The tunnel widened into an intersection at the point where they saw the first candlestick, and the four tunnels spreading out from it and into the abyss around them were wider as well. They were all unlit, save for the one on their left.

“You turn right for central Oxford and the Bodleian”, Morse said. “That’s where I always went, the times I was down here. We must be going somewhere further away.”

“Sounds promising”, Peter said, but started towards the candlelit tunnel regardless.

There was a very real chance they’d encounter someone while they walked, as curious and undoubtedly well-hidden mode of transport the tunnels were. After all, if this was a well-known entrance into the tunnels, and one that had existed for a hundred years at least, someone else might be taking the same route into the ball. Peter wouldn’t have minded running into Shirley, just to see how pleased she was about having to fit through the tunnels in a ballgown (and to see her in a ballgown, period - he could bet she looked breathtaking in it, had she chosen to attend after all that had happened), but there was no sign of anyone during the half-hour they travelled through the tunnels. Once they stopped and stood in silence because Morse thought he’d heard someone speak, but as nothing else was said after, they concluded it might’ve come down a fireplace from one of the houses above or something like that.

At one point, the tunnel started climbing upwards, and before long, it turned into outright stairs.

“This is it”, Morse said quietly, mindful of the echo. “Are you ready?”   
“As ready as I’ll be”, Peter said, trying not to look like he was freezing up in fear. He could power through it, for the sake of solving what they’d been spending their days on for quite a while already. Besides, he was armed as well as he conceivably could be, with Morse by his side.

As they climbed up the steps, the air grew steadily colder, until they emerged in the night, standing on a field of well-trimmed grass. In the distance there stood a manor house, its walls ochre-coloured and the roof a burgundy-tinted brown. Light shone through its white-rimmed windows onto the stone pillars surrounding the ground floor. However, it wasn’t the kind of light that welcomed a traveller into a home or a resting stop at the end of a weary day. It was a sort of dangerous, enchanting sheen, something that was created when candles had been lit, but the moon was also out and did its best to bathe everything in a sort of ethereal sheen.

“Where do you think we are?” Peter asked Morse quietly. He didn’t recognise the surroundings - the yard they were standing on was surrounded by old trees, obscuring everything that lay beyond.

“I think this might be Headington Hill”, Morse said. “No idea who lives here, though. We better get inside.”

Peter looked at Morse, a little wistful. In other circumstances, this might’ve been  _ fun _ . When did a bloke like him get a chance to attend an event of the kind he only thought actually happened in London’s elite circles? He would’ve been perfectly content to just take Morse dancing, even though Peter’s uneducated ballroom manners definitely would’ve shown, but it didn’t matter. It was unfair that they weren’t here to have a good time, or a particularly long time.

“A kiss for good luck?” Peter asked softly, and could barely finish the sentence before Morse had leaned in and pressed their lips together. It was left unfinished, with Morse pulling back before Peter could start messing up his hair, but it did do the trick well enough.

The garden was already asleep for the winter, flowers mostly dark and frosted over, leaves drooping downwards with a tiredness that they couldn’t shake. The grass was still green, but it wouldn’t be for long, since it was a matter of time before they would reach November and start expecting first now any day. It would’ve looked lush and beautiful in the summer, and Peter guessed it did have some charm still, but it was a ghostly sort of charm, one that didn’t ask for admiration but just took it by force, beguiled you until it was too late.

Approaching the house, they could hear the sound of distant music. Morse closed his eyes, listening closely, and seemed to momentarily fall into some sort of trance.

“A quartet”, Morse said, eyes still closed. “If there’s one thing I like about these balls, it’s the music. It’s come a long way from the earliest traditions. I only wish they’d play something modern, or even bring along a singer sometime…”

“We didn’t come here for the music”, Peter pointed out, and Morse opened his eyes, narrowing them at him.

“You wouldn’t speak like that if you - oh”, Morse stuttered.

A door had opened on the patio, and a man in a somewhat oversized tailcoat slipped out. He seemed to be in a pickle of some sort, frantically digging through his pockets. The confusion gave Morse and Peter time to slip past him and into the manor without being paid too much attention to.

The hallway they entered was lined with dark curtains on the window-side, and on the opposite wall, paintings hung, some definitely old enough to be in a museum. Peter was instantly sure that this was the most expensive house he’d ever been in, which was confirmed when he looked down at his feet and noted the marble floor. He didn’t have too much time to stand around in awe, because Morse pulled him along and walked to the end of the hallway, pushing open a heavy door and setting a wave of warmth, music and conversation upon him.

They’d entered the ballroom itself, and Peter’s eyes had trouble adjusting to the light, uneven as it was. He mapped out the room in increments - the bright flash of a lady’s emerald green gown, the sound of someone laughing, a stray note that seemed out of order with the rest of the string quartet’s playing, the violent mass of red that was the heavy, blood-red velvet curtain covering the opposite wall in its entirety.

He didn’t know there could be this many vampires in one place. Several dozen - if not half a hundred - men and women lined the walls or had taken their place on the floor, spinning each other or letting themselves be spun around, or simply standing around sipping from a wine glass filled with something way too thick to be red wine.

“Morse!” a voice said, and a blur of gold approached them. She couldn’t get too close, because her skirt was pretty wide, but she did maneuver herself admirably between the other guests before clapping her hand on Morse’s shoulder and leaning in to speak quietly. “I’m so glad you made it! I’m so sorry for the bad tip, there’s apparently a new set of owners at the pub who aren’t so helpful, and -”

“No worries”, Morse said. “Have you seen the host yet?”

“I think I caught a glimpse, but I’ve been, uh, busy”, Shirley said. She avoided Morse’s eyes when he looked at her quizzically, and seemed to only now notice Peter. They locked eyes and stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment.

“You look amazing”, Peter offered. Shirley looked at him approvingly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She’d clearly put in effort, her hair done up and decorated with some sort of comb that matched the colour of her gown, bejeweled with little blue crystals.

“Thank you so much”, Shirley said, and to Peter’s astonishment, gave him the first smile he’d ever received from her. “I’d love to stay and chat with you, but I need to find someone. Have you by any chance seen -”

The current song came to an end, and they stopped talking out of respect. After the applause was over, Peter turned to look at the room. Yet more people had joined the dancers, and there weren’t too many standing around looking elegant with their… well,  _ blood glasses _ in hand. He’d have to drag Morse onto the dancefloor soon, if only under the guise of fitting in and not arousing suspicion.

His eyes stopped on a dark-haired man, slim and dressed in all black, and the man looked back at him. A cold shock of dread ran through his spine, but the harm had already been done - by the time he averted his eyes, the man had furrowed his brows, clearly taking note.

“Morse”, Peter said. “Don’t look, but the man from the alley is here.”

“Damn”, Morse said. Shirley turned to look behind her shoulder at him, but managed it a lot more subtly and elegantly than either Peter or Morse would’ve. All that was missing was a fan, and she would’ve fit right into the ranks of the Queen’s court, wrapped up in intrigue.

“It’s Carrington’s cousin, Thomas, I think”, Shirley said. “What’s wrong with him?”   
“He saw something he wasn’t supposed to”, Peter said. “I don’t know if you would take… someone like me… wandering into your party uninvited.”

“I can assure you that Morse’s had enough boyfriends that nobody’s going to bat an eye. We’re a little bit different about these things”, Shirley said. Morse looked like he wanted to strangle someone, probably himself. Peter felt himself blush.

“No, I meant… I’m a human”, he said under his breath. Shirley seemed to understand.

“Right, I forgot. That’s a bit more tricky”, Shirley said. “Look, if you want, I could go over and distract him long enough for you two to disappear for a while. Then when you get back, you can enter through some other door and -”

But she was interrupted, as there was a voice from the raised stand on which the quartet had been playing. A pale man had climbed up, dressed in a dark suit and a burgundy silk vest, his features clear and sharp. His black hair was curly, falling down to his shoulders in a style that would’ve been called unkempt if seen on anyone else, but was viewed as daring and charming on an aristocrat.

“Dear friends, old and new”, the man said. “As many but not all of you probably know, my name is Joseph Carrington, and I have the pleasure of hosting you tonight. Be warmly welcomed into my home!”

Peter checked his pocket-watch surreptitiously. Sure enough, it was almost midnight.

“We have a night of many wonders awaiting us”, Carrington said. “And we will enjoy them in due course. But before that, I’d like to beg your indulgence in a little display.”

Hums of approval sounded throughout the crowd. Peter glanced at Morse - if he’d brought out an unsuspecting victim or several for them all to feast on, they had no choice but to attack without asking questions. It seemed like the only ethical thing to do, even if it resulted in unholy carnage. Morse shook his head and opened his palm towards the floor in a gesture for Peter to hold on. Peter nodded just a bit.

“I have been working on this day and night for months, and it has been no easy feat”, Carrington said. “Especially the transport - I look forward to boring many of you with tales of the troubles I’ve suffered through to make this happen. But I wholeheartedly believe it’s all worth it, because as you might know, lighting has always been the largest of our troubles in gatherings like these. What a pity to wander in the darkness because of who we are, and to be outcasts in the face of modern technology because it blinds us altogether. That’s what I thought, until I thought of an unconventional solution. So, ladies and gentlemen…” 

Carrington stepped off the stand, walked over to the wall covered by the red curtain, and pulled a rope. The heavy velvet fell with a  _ woosh _ , and crumpled dramatically upon the ground, revealing…

Fuck.

The effect that a wall-sized mirror had in reflecting the candlelight of the room’s various candelabras was breathtaking, Carrington had been right in that regard, but there was one fault in the plan. As intended, it didn’t reflect vampires just like no other mirror did, providing a clear pathway for the light to reflect off it, but it  _ did  _ still reflect humans. And as there was exactly one living person in the room right then, that being Peter, all eyes were turned on him in an instant.

“A human!” Carrington yowled. “What a devious turn of events indeed!”

Peter started backing away towards the door, not taking his eyes off the crowd in fear of someone jumping him from behind (although he had to glance behind him to avoid walking straight into someone’s arms -  _ god _ , why couldn’t the stupid mirror just reflect the bastards), but didn’t get far before someone grabbed him with a hiss. He tried to elbow the attacker in the face, but they were too fast, and he couldn’t grab his gun either, before his arms were pressed against his body.

He turned his head in fear, and it was the washed-out regency woman he and Morse had fruitlessly chased after on the Magdalen Bridge. Just his luck.

“Bring him to me”, Carrington said, having clearly gathered his wits. The woman started dragging Peter towards him, and his fighting was fruitless (and rather ungentlemanly, but if he was about to be eaten, he wouldn’t worry about propriety). Morse wasn’t coming to his aid either, which either meant he’d chickened out at the last moment, or was thinking of a plan to get Peter out of the situation unharmed. Peter really hoped it was the latter.

“See?” Carrington said, as the woman let go of him and shoved him against Carrington’s chest instead. The man wrapped his arms around Peter in a twisted embrace, but there was no pretense of gentleness about it - this was a prison, since there was no way for Peter to punch him in the face without probably breaking his own fist in the process.

“Even here, in my home, we cannot be merry among ourselves without being attacked”, Carrington said. “Speak, man. What business do you have in my ball?”

“I thought I’d try it out”, Peter choked out, his head empty of any probable reasons for why he’d arrived, other than that he was a policeman looking to arrest someone. Carrington laughed coldly.

“Has nobody taught you to mind your own business?” Carrington asked. “Well, no matter. You’re welcome enough, if you have some blood to spare.”

He let go of Peter, and Peter scrambled to get free and  _ run _ , but was soon stopped again by Carrington grabbing him by his coat and tearing it off. Then, he pulled Peter closer again, and Peter realised he was surveying his neck, probably bloody licking his lips in anticipation already.

Carrington’s hungry musings were interrupted when his hand brushed against Peter’s belt. More specifically, the place where Peter had attached his holster. Peter closed his eyes, praying that the man would think it was only a prop, but no - Carrington unclipped it and pulled out the revolver in disgust.

“You’ve entered my home in order to attack us! With silver bullets, nonetheless”, Carrington said as he emptied the chamber, the cartridges clattering onto the floor. A gasp was heard throughout the room, and everywhere Peter looked, there were faces looking at him in suspicion and fear. “The audacity. How  _ dare  _ you?”

“You’ve been raising the dead”, Peter said, raising his voice so the whole room would hear. Even if he couldn’t escape, he could buy time for Morse to work his magic somehow. It was better than nothing, at any case.

“I’m a policeman, and it’s my duty to protect the people of this city. The  _ living _ . And if you’re beckoning people who already chose to enter an eternal rest out of their graves and they become violent, you’re at fault!”

“Indeed”, Carrington said sarcastically. “Can you believe, friends, the gall of this man? And to think he’s not the only one who would doom us into a meaningless undeath, one we spend sleeping, tamed into a creature of stories and legends. But they’re wrong! We all have the right to feed and live, and we might as well start with this meal that has walked right into our hands. We will overcome, believe me, and nobody will be able to stop us from doing what we wish.”

“You’re wrong”, a voice said, and Peter looked up to see Morse approaching them, the crowd parting to make way for him. If  _ this  _ was the very late moment he chose to play Peter’s saviour, he could’ve at least chosen some more inventive line. Carrington simply laughed at this one.

“If you want him that much, Morse, I’ll hand him over to you. I would never have you think of me as an ungenerous host”, Carrington said. “But what quarrel do you have with my vision?”

“Why suck anyone dry?” Morse asked. “You don’t need to kill people to be satisfied. Those who do are in the minority.”

“So you enjoy drinking the blood of cattle to survive? A pitiful existence, if you ask me, when a far more enjoyable meal is constantly within reach”, Carrington said. Morse shook his head, then took another step closer.

“It certainly gets you by, but I do know human blood is more healthy”, Morse said. “But that’s still no reason to kill humans. You can feed without turning  _ or  _ killing anyone, as long as you have their consent. It’s really that simple.”

“And you believe in this perfect world, where humans willingly give up their blood to sustain us?” Carrington asked. “They hate and shun us, face it. I admire your youthful idealism, but it’s not going to work in practice.”

“It’s not impossible”, Morse said. “The man whose life you’ve threatened several times in the course of the last five minutes is proof enough. I believe he still has the scars.”

“Damn right I do”, Peter said, wrenching himself free of Carrington’s shock-loosened grasp to turn his head and bare his neck to the crowd. Carrington pulled him back once again, a condescending look in his eyes as he turned to Morse once more.

“So just because you like to play with your food, we all should?” Carrington asked. “Don’t you think it’s even  _ more  _ cruel than what we usually do? You’re going to turn or kill him at some point anyway, and it’s hardly more noble to prolong his suffering than to be done with it at once.”

Morse approached them, and Peter could feel Carrington’s grip tighten. When Morse noticed, he stopped, now only a few feet away.

“That’s where you err”, Morse said. “I haven’t turned this man, and I haven’t killed him either. And he is free to wash his hands of me whenever he wants. Moderation and consent, Carrington, and we’ll all be happier for it, I promise you. Now, will you please let him go?”

Carrington sighed, but partly let go of Peter, only holding onto him with one hand. Morse walked over, his eyes gentle, and put his hand on the small of his back to lead him away. However, Peter felt Morse’s fingers twitch, then slip lower, and when he realised what was going on, he steadied himself. When he felt a weight in his pocket disappear, he lunged for Carrington’s feet, inelegantly grabbing onto them like a bear trap. At the same time, there was a satisfying click as Morse clipped one of the handcuffs on Carrington, then the other.

“What - why -  _ it burns _ ”, Carrington said, his voice rising with each syllable. “What are you doing?”

“You might’ve had good intentions, but I’m arresting you anyway”, Peter said, standing up and dusting himself off as Morse finished securing the handcuffs and held onto Carrington to keep him from getting away. “We’ll get rid of the cuffs once you’re locked up, I promise.”

The room was completely silent for a second as Carrington pondered his fate, but then, the woman from the bridge stepped up.

“Are you going to get rid of all of us, then?” she asked. “Not kill us, but put us behind bars forever just because of what we are? I’m not going back to my grave.”   
“You’re free to do whatever you please”, Morse said. “Travel, rest, settle down somewhere. As long as you don’t go out of your way to kill.”

Someone cleared their throat, and Peter noticed it was the man clad in all-black from before.

“Since my cousin is somewhat otherwise occupied, I’ll assume the role of master of ceremonies for the rest of the night”, the man said. “Thomas Carrington, at your service.”

The atmosphere of the room relaxed, and as Thomas motioned for the quartet to return to their position and begin playing again, chatter began warily filling up the room again. As Morse and Peter escorted Carrington away towards the exit, Shirley approached them.

“Can’t say it went the smoothest I could’ve imagined, but oh well”, she said. Morse rolled his eyes at her.

“Are you going to help us get him to the police station or not?” Morse asked. Shirley’s eyes softened, and she glanced at the man standing beside her, who Peter soon realised was the man they’d seen on the patio when they came in.

“In this dress? Hardly”, Shirley said. “But George can come along to make sure Carrington doesn’t cause you any trouble, would you, sweetheart? I’m sure it’ll only take an hour or so, and I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“Alright”, the man - George - said, looking a bit sheepish, but going along with Shirley. Judging by his eyes, it was because he was completely lovestruck. Peter couldn’t blame him for letting it get the better of him, since he’d been guilty of pretty similar behaviour during the last few days.

  
“Don’t forget the jelly!” Carrington shouted into the house as he was escorted out, possibly in vain - his cousin probably didn’t hear him over the music. Given what most of the menu in vampire events probably consisted of, hearing that made Peter shudder.

“That sounds really disgusting”, Peter said. Carrington turned his head and looked at him, eyes blazing.

“I don’t barge into your home to demand justifications for what meals you might enjoy, Officer, so please refrain from doing that to me in the future”, Carrington said. “And I’m pretty sure you’re breaking some torture laws with these handcuffs.”

They really didn’t feel like trying to fit through the tunnels without losing sight of Carrington or accidentally letting him escape, so the road it was, walking under the starlit sky and slowly leaving behind the light of the manor and even the thick woods surrounding it. The moon was clouded over, but every once in a while a sliver slipped past the filmy curtain of blue, pale and bright like a dove.

Even though they’d just arrested him, Carrington was pretty cordial with them and didn’t mouth off during the time it took to reach the station. The same couldn’t be said about George, who wasn’t exactly  _ mouthing off _ , but speaking constantly nonetheless - about how he’d been excited about the ball for quite a while now, about how the whole  _ vampire thing _ was still so new to him and how he was excited to meet everyone, and about his worries over whether Shirley would agree to take his last name.

“Wait, what?” Peter asked, looking at George disbelievingly. “Aren’t you moving a bit suddenly?”

“She said she’d marry me if I let her turn me”, George said, frowning at him, and making Morse choke on air.

***

They had to wake people up when they arrived at the station. Peter had never seen frustration turn into amazement so fast, as the chief of police himself came down to glare at a vampire through the bars. Carrington himself seemed pretty annoyed at having been invited to step inside his cell, especially after Morse had fetched Max to coat the bars with silver to keep him from escaping.

“You know we don’t have any resources to deal with him, right?” the Inspector asked Peter, after both he and Morse had been subjected to several hours of ceaseless questioning. “This is why we haven’t caught vampires before. We have no idea what to do. Are we going to have to ask volunteers to come in and let him drink their blood?”

“Probably not”, Morse said. “I know of several butchershops that will be happy to provide some blood for a reasonable price.”

“And we can send him to London on the first prisoner carriage, right?” Peter asked. “They must’ve had vampire prisoners before, they’ll know what to do with him.”

The inspector sighed, but after a few follow-up questions, let them go. Peter brought Morse into his room upstairs, too tired to consider walking absolutely anywhere else that night.

“It’s not much, but it’s my home for now”, Peter said. Morse cautiously walked around the room like a cat that had been released into a new house for the first time, before sitting down on Peter’s bed. Peter sat next to him, resting his head on Morse’s shoulder, the silk of his shirt luxurious against his cheek.

“Look, about what you said at the manor… washing my hands of you”, Peter said. Morse turned to look at him, unsure, his lips parted. He pressed his mouth into a tight line, bracing himself for whatever Peter might say.

“I’m not going to do that”, Peter said. “I mean, I’ve never been one to settle either, but for now… I’d like to keep you around. If you’ll have me.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Morse looking down at the floor, and Peter started to worry that he’d gone overboard. Maybe this was too fast for someone who literally had all the time in the world in his hands. However, he was surprised, as he so often was by Morse, when the man turned to look at him with a toothy grin on his face, like a beam of sun.

“You’ll have to bring your own food if you stay over at mine again”, Morse said. “But I’d love to see what kind of life you live when you’re not chasing vampires, Peter Jakes.”

For a second, Peter thought the world had slipped away from under his feet, but it was only Morse, pushing him down onto the bed and kissing him. His lips were cold, and so were his hands as he rested them on Peter’s hips, but they were soft, gentle and  _ hungry _ , setting Peter’s heart alight and making him kiss back with fury.

If Peter was inventive enough, he was sure that with time, he’d think of a way to warm Morse up. And if all else failed, he could and would let the thirsty bastard drink from him again.


End file.
